Devil's Spawn
by Nephilim Rising
Summary: Sometimes history needs but a few men in the right place in the right time. Struggling to survive, forced to choose between love, vengeance, and throne, Sephiroth and Genesis challenge the established order of things. France, 1346. Historical AU.
1. Prologue

**_Summary_:** Historical AU. France, 1346-1347. On a verge of a new war with England, Genesis, a Dominican monk, was captured by a knight. What came out of their relationship shook the whole country and changed the course of history, but for every change a befitting price had to be paid. Not a love story, not an adventure, not an easy read.

**_Disclaimer_:** I own nothing or no one. Everything is the product of my more or less sick imagination and fascination with Sephiroth's character.

**_Pairings_:** Sephiroth/Genesis.

**_A/N_: Warning: **blasphemy, yaoi, adult themes (as complicated ethical, theological issues, Latin terminology, old-stylish language, etc), violence, angst, mentions of auto-da-fe, prostitution, torture, and madness later on. Alternative history. AU.

For mature audience without strong religious affiliations. You were warned.

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc:**_

_Cathars_ – Christian religious movement, which was considered dangerous and heretical. Was based on faith in two equal beginnings, Satan and God (radical dualism).

_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.(lat.) - _O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, grant us thy peace.

_Dominicans_ – an order of mendicant monks, established by St. Dominic in 1214. Their prime activities concentrated around preaching, war on heresies, missionary work, etc.

_Donjon_ – main premises of the medieval castle.

_Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.(lat.) - _Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

_Battle of Crecy_ – One of the most humiliating defeats of France in the Hundred Years' war. Took place on the 26th of August, 1346. The English army was estimated to number 16000 men and the French around twice as many.

_Curse of the Templar Knights_ – a curse, uttered by Jacques de Molay (Grand Master of the Templar Order) on the 18th of March, 1314 as he was being burnt alive in Paris. Within a year those three men he mentioned in his curse died. Among them was French king Philip IV.

_Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. (lat.) _- Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, both now and always, and to the ages of ages. Amen.

* * *

**~ DEVIL'S SPAWN ~**

_**Prologue.**_

_"__Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem."_ _(Angus Dei, Catholic hymn)._

Genesis quickly crossed the stone-paved, narrow courtyard of a castle, hiding his face underneath a black hood that completely concealed his dainty, as porcelain features. The redhead only saw a blur of stones underneath his feet, not trying to discern the direction in the thick haze of approaching night, but rather the road, which could tell a tale of its own; overgrown with moss and grass ready to be weeded out, the stones would often expose poverty, which the dwelling's owners would desperately try to hide under ostentatious lustre of furniture, tapestries, and garments. This road, however, was paved with blocks, evenly fitting each other on the borders, and swept with dilingence. Of all sounds, only the twofold shuffling of feet remained, his own and that of a plump, young girl who found him and persistently invited inside. From time to time, Genesis could see the flap of her white linen dress.

Why, of all mendicant monks and Dominican brethren, who wandered about the vast expanse of his motherland, France, did the girl find him?

Before the door closed behind them, the monk heard a faint neigh of a horse, which better than words confirmed that the guide didn't lie; it was a castle, a dwelling of one of those arrogant nobles, who cared about their bloodlines and titles only. Genesis strained his memory, having remembered the name of the place, Castle Thil. The girl also mentioned in passing something about a dying young man, who needed to find consolation and reconcilement with God before it was his time to leave this perishable world, but thereof the Dominican didn't inquire. It wasn't in his habit to ask many questions or to feel for the moribund.

They entered through the back door of the donjon; inside, stone stairs spiraled upwards in a tall, rectangular shaft, and Genesis could have sworn – even though monks and clergy do not swear (a faint smirk followed that thought) – it was an old structure, a reminiscent of architecture, which dated back to the Norman conquests. Each step echoed, dashing about the premises like a terror-stricken bird. Thick stone walls were covered in dark mold no less old than the castle itself – obviously in winter, and winters in Northern France were not mild, heat from the main sources never lingered there. It was a passage for household servants, like the girl who confidently guided him to the door on top of the staircase and through it. They ended up in a small room with a narrow window that overlooked the beautiful scenery now concealed by a cloak of dusk. All about the landscape below was limitless expanse of hills and waves of rich verdure, all but a gray serpent of a road, which stretched from the base of the second wall surrounding this human dwelling.

In contrast to the damp and cold outer premises, the air in the room was hot, thick from the heavy aroma of incense exhaled with braziers. The furniture was luxurious, with carvings, adorning the wooden surface of a large bed and a small stool therebeside, which supplemented the impression of wealth, prosperity, and nobility. On the walls, hung the tapestries of finest craftsmanship with ancestral coat of arms embroidered on the linen – for Nevers Counts it was a golden Lion on a blue field.

Genesis knew heraldry as any educated person in his place would.

"Here he is, father," the girl's voice shook, as she pointed to the bed where, wrapped in woolen blankets and trapped between thick layers of pillows, lay a young man, his silhouette barely visible in the wan light that penetrated the room through the window. It was still brighter than the gleam of smoldering crimson coals in the small fireplace. "Poor messire, may God be with him."

She hastily crossed herself, and Genesis mechanically repeated her gesture, mumbling with hollow notes, "Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini."

It was hard to get used to this role, since it reminded him of the day… Everything, his every word, gesture, breath, and life itself was a recollection of that one fateful day.

The girl was the personification of humbleness with downcast eyes and tears on her cheeks; she noticed nothing, only there was nothing to notice besides a brief loss of temper, a sign not telltale enough even for the most experienced orators, the masters of lies and pretense. So gullible she was, so naïve, Genesis thought without pity.

The man on the bed tossed and moaned, and the girl shot a frightened glance at his slender frame. "Poor, poor messire," she repeated with a desperate sob and, tucking up her skirts, dashed out of the room, her plain white dress disappearing behind the closing door.

Genesis was left alone. He didn't spare the dying man a single glance, coming to stand by the window and freezing with his back against the wall as if fatigued by the mere presence of another person. How many deathbed confessions did he hear on his long road of a Dominican brother? Quite a few, he recalled, and most of them included pain, regret, ugliness, a pale reflection of his utmost _sins_, of what he had done, and of what he was about to do.

He was called the devil's spawn quite often and not without a reason, all the twisted irony he could think of woven into this alias. He was worse than any devil any chaste Catholic mind could imagine, and at times, it pained him to realize what became of him; then there were times when he felt it was fate.

A young man on the bed moaned again, and the monk's thoughts diverted to the reason of his coming. After all, he would not deny this poor child his last blessing, knowing with satisfaction of a lost soul that the dying was doomed to vanish in emptiness, and he – doomed to watch that last spark of life fade. So pitiful, so frail was human life, as was hope for paradise or justice.

The Catholic God was cruel.

Genesis threw off his black cloak and pulled a small wooden stool nearer to the bed of the dying man. However, one glance at the stranger was enough to forget about previous thoughts, and, entranced, the redhead drew closer.

A pale, angelic visage stared back at him; eyes were closed, beads of sweat covered a flawless forehead, betraying signs of high fever, but the monk still felt as if the dying could see him. Framed by the thinnest tresses of pristine silver, the young man's features would be the quintessence of beauty if such a poetic metaphor existed alive; of beauty molded from marble and ugliness that, likely, hid behind the mystery of his birth. The stranger had to be someone's bastard; the Count's was his first guess, since Louis' legitimate son was only around ten.

However, Genesis immediately dismissed the thought. The stranger was too beautiful, a child of a progenitor with an equally demonic, alluring appearance Louis I didn't possess. The redhead gently passed his fingers over the damp marble forehead, marveling the finesse of this man's chiseled features, the unnatural softness of silver tresses.

Genesis had it sometimes, a sudden desire to talk to someone, to bear his soul to the living being instead of whitewashed walls of monastic cells or peasants' huts. It was a luxury for him, and even when he could find someone _willing_ to listen, it would be one of those, doomed, dying souls who would take his words with them to the grave.

Without thinking, Genesis took the youth's frail, hot hand in his.

"They burnt her alive and made me watch. My mother." A weak moan he had to strain his ears to hear was the only answer. At least, Genesis was holding the hand of a living man and talking to a living man, even if the latter could not hear him. "She was a Cathar, perhaps, one of the last faithful, and could not even count on the luxury of being _mercifully_ strangled before the auto-da-fe. She screamed. I have never heard anyone screaming like that. She screamed and prayed… and then died with a faith that I, her child, was not strong enough to keep. Do you pity me? Don't." Bitter mockery in Genesis' melodic voice rang hollow. "I don't pity you. Not in the least."

The monk paused, looking at the young man. The more he talked, the easier his words were born and the more he was reminded of a confession, which went the other way around.

"I was born on a cursed day, when the dying Templar Master damned the French king. Damned France." He glanced at the fretted wooden headboard. "Even the Greeks and Romans believed in damnations of their gods. And whose gods were right, ours or the gods of Plato and Aristotle? Those who demanded a human sacrifice or those who willingly accepted it? I shall leave that question to the priests and the Pope. I am just a modest Dominican brother." Genesis lowered his gaze, slightly flinching when he noticed he was looking straight into feverishly glistening emerald depths. The eyes were as everything else about the stranger – unbearably pure and beautiful; 'twas an illusion, he knew. The redhead cleared his throat, having let go of the pale hand at once to clench his fingers around a cherry rosary on his chest.

"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto," he began in a toneless voice, eyes downcast. "Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen."

"Amen." He heard a response, and that voice – deep, velvety, masterful – sent pleasant shivers down his spine. The young stranger obviously understood Latin; perhaps, he understood other things the redhead preferred he would not. "Thank you for coming, father."

Genesis nodded, with chagrin thinking that someone had made a mistake. This man didn't need a monk or a priest.

"What has been troubling you?"

"I have sinned, father."

Feeling that the stranger was intently studying his face, the redhead hid underneath one of his most pleasant smiles. He's been with men, with women, with whores, and nobles. He killed. He lied. He shattered hopes. He blasphemed. "Believe me," he uttered softly, "you don't even know what sin is… my child."

"What did you say, father?" Pale-green eyes were staring at him as before, and in those enigmatic depths the redhead could not recognize a familiar shade of death, only a fervent desire to live, to rise, to breathe in acrid smoke of a battle.

Someone definitely made a mistake.

"Nothing. You don't need my last consolations, child, for your time has not yet come."

The stranger visibly relaxed, and suddenly he looked so placid that the redhead felt envy.

"You don't need me yet," he repeated with another, more genuine smile that was both pained, reminiscent, and mocking, watching the youth with angelic face fall asleep.

… Genesis left at dawn when the same servant girl returned to check on him.

"What should I tell Milord Louis?" Was her first question and her first anxious look was directed to the bed, not to his face. "Did… did messire Sephiroth confess? Did he find peace with God?"

"He doesn't need a priest." Genesis snapped sharper than he intended. "He needs a doctor."

With those words, he put his black cloak on and threw a hood over his face.

The girl neared the bedside. For a moment she stood, spellbound, staring at the pale face peacefully shrouded with slumber, and then her trembling hand timorously touched the marble forehead; it was cold, Genesis knew, he'd checked before.

The girl reacted worse than he could have imagined – having knelt at his feet, she made a desperate reach for the flap of his frock to kiss it.

"It's a miracle!" She frantically whispered. "He's healthy, father. God answered my prayers."

Genesis reluctantly yielded to her praise, letting her lips brush against the sackcloth of his cassock, yet couldn't hide a sarcastic grimace. If natural strength of a young body could be called a miracle, then life itself was no less of a marvel. With a sigh, the redhead resolutely took a step back, and the girl immediately rose, her shining with adoration face betraying complete obedience. The young stranger was loved and admired among his servants, that much was certain; that much elicited envy.

"I am in a hurry, child."

"Would you like to stay for a meal, sire? I am sure milord…"

Genesis pulled on a devout face, one of so many masks he was used to wearing and changing.

"No, my child, I have a lot of work to do. I have to be going now," he crossed himself, "for many lost souls still need salvation."

The girl brightened up, giving him money. He accepted. He wasn't picky.

When the castle disappeared from view, Genesis transformed – no longer was there a trace of solemn sluggishness in his gestures and movements, the beads and robe disappeared in a bottomless knapsack, followed by a wig with tonsure. Now he looked like a page or a squire in a tight-fitting coat with narrow sleeves commonly known as cotardie and with a dagger affixed to his belt. His hand ran through luxuriant auburn hair with pleasure, finding no bald spot.

A white horse waited for the redhead in a nearby coppice, whereat he left it the day before; having gracefully mounted it, Genesis headed for the dusty road that he saw meandering as a gray serpent among the green hills from a narrow window of the castle. It felt like a dream now, the girl's request, the young stranger of angelic beauty, the fake confession - a dream now dispelled by breaking dawn.

Six years remained until the infamous battle of Crecy.

For six years Genesis forgot about this strange encounter.


	2. Chapter I: An actor and a knight

**_A/N:_** **_Short list of names, personalities, etc:_**

_Maison de tolerance (fr.)_ – disorderly house, brothel.

_Château de Thil (fr.)_ – castle Thil.

_Peter Abelard (1079-1142)_ – a famous French theologian and philosopher.

…_allegoria ac de cigno ad lapsum hominis (lat.)_ – allegory of the fall of man.

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti (lat.)_ – In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

_Gambeson _– a quilted and padded or stuffed leather or cloth garment worn under chain mail.

_Heaume_ – also known as pot helms or great helms.

_Destrier_ – a battle horse of great endurance.

* * *

PART I: BIRTH OF SAMAEL

**_Chapter I._**

**_An actor and a knight._**

"_And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, 'Come and see'. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." (Revelation 6:7-8, KJV)._

Sephiroth's eyes always betrayed him, almond-shaped, huge, of inhumanly-bright, emerald color. His stepfather told the young knight they resembled eyes of his real father, the king of France from the previous, or cursed as everyone often remembered it, Capetian dynasty, also known as Philip the Handsome. Sephiroth remembered the day when the Count of Nevers and Flanders called him to his private chambers and explained the details of his true origin, however, warning against any attempts to reveal them. The Count was a cautious man, and only a fool would not remember the fate of all Philip's legal sons and grandsons who perished of poison or sudden disease within fourteen years of their father's death. Louis saw the hand of God in Philip's destiny and therefore condemned all his ties to the previous dynasty, at first even wishing to divorce his wife who was the granddaughter of the cursed king. If Sephiroth was ever to appear at the royal court of Philip de Valois as the dead king's bastard, the Count of Flanders would not support him.

Therefore, most of the time, Sephiroth obediently forgot about having king's blood in his veins, and only the eyes betrayed him, lustrous and cold, as pools of icebound emerald water.

He now belonged to the so called _petite noblesse_, being knighted and given a couple of castles and a wealthy feoffment in Flanders to his possession. During the uprising in Ghent and Bruges, Louis and his family had to flee to the County of Nevers and find refuge at Château de Thil, yet Sephiroth could not accept the loss of his feud, and only the constant threat of a war with England kept him from calling his vassals and claiming back his land.

He was a patient man. He could wait.

Such were the thoughts of a silver-haired knight as he reposed himself, arms absently crossed under his head, upon a low makeshift bed in a blue and yellow marquee, lavishly decorated with ancestral and his personal coat of arms. The sullen hum of hundreds of voices sporadically reached his ears, disrupting a perfectly woven pattern of thoughts, but he always managed to concentrate.

Suddenly, the knight rose, each movement graceful to the point of seeming nearly fluid, and came to stand by the movable table that occupied a good third of his tent. His waist-length hair loosely cascaded over his shoulders and back, otherworldly in both softness and color – ashen gray with a cold glint. Sephiroth would not let anyone, whether the Count's or King's servants, touch it, keeping the symbol of his pride immaculate for any occasion – be it a reception at the royal court or a tournament – regardless of the participants and spectators. He repeatedly found his hair to be an object of gossip, but then his whole persona attracted undesired attention on so many occasions that he would not be able to count those with the fingers on both hands.

Akin to a fish, the silver comb dived into the satiny waterfall and emerged again as the knight kept passing his hand over his hair to straighten rare tangled tresses. His squire's footsteps did not interrupt the knight's leisured pastime and he continued combing long silver locks even as a question slipped from him.

"Who did they match me with this time?"

"You wouldn't believe, messire," Sephiroth felt it without turning – his squire was grinning. "It's seignior Philippe, son of the Duke of Burgundy."

"Again?" One elegant silver eyebrow arched sardonically. "I would not think he wanted to measure swords with me _ex eventu_ on the tiltyard of Paris."

"I was told he wanted a rematch."

"Does he not fear humiliation in front of the King?"

"My words exactly, messire," the dark-haired youth carried on with enthusiasm. Having finished combing his hair in a few thoughtful movements, Sephiroth turned around to meet hazel eyes, shining with silent adoration. "Last time he was limping for the whole week after the tournament."

His squire suppressed a giggle, since the silver-haired knight wasn't keen to express his gaiety any other way than in a faint ironical smirk.

"And how would you know, Alber?"

"You keep forgetting, messire, that my younger brother is a page at the court of milord Duke."

"Humph, indeed."

Alber was fifteen when Sephiroth chose him to be his squire after his former one perished in a skirmish. Since then, the youth expressed almost endless devotion and eagerness to learn – literacy, art of war, and mannerism – which he taught with certain pleasure. For his own reasons, Sephiroth had no children, and, although this youth with genial disposition was of lower social status, the knight could at times consider him his son, or rather, a person close enough to ignore the difference.

At his sign, Alber began the ritual of putting the full-plate tournament armor on, which was the most tiresome part of the whole day of fete. At first, the youth helped him scramble into a gambeson embroidered with yellow lions. The chain mail followed, perfectly matched steel ringlets flowing over his body like a waterfall. Ordered in Milan, it served him well in many battles, having taken blows of Flemish peasants, highwaymen, and even French nobility – the latter only in tournaments. When Alber was finished with adjusting the pectoral, he kneeled and carefully tied up leather laces of his plate leg shields. The last details were the arm shields and a pair of steel gloves.

Although trained to bear the weight of full armor since his teenage years, Sephiroth felt like a huge, lumbering tower of steel. It was difficult to bend, walk, even to clench his fingers, each movement followed by faint clangs.

"Prepare my horse," he curtly addressed his squire once the feeling of too much weight on his shoulders ceased being as onerous. Having hastily nodded, the dark-haired youth dashed out of the marquee. Sephiroth followed in a more dignified manner after he had picked up his one-and-a-half handled sword, also known as a_ bastard _sword, his shield, and his black heaume, decorated with two horns specifically chosen for the occasion.

A gentle breeze with smells only spring could beget caressed his face, cooling his skin, yet Sephiroth knew the heat would soon take its toll. His squire appeared, leading a perfectly bred jet-black steed by the bridle; its back was decorated with a luxurious white horse cloth adorned with the salient coat of arms. Once Sephiroth mounted the destrier, his squire threw an immaculately blue cloak around his steel outlined shoulders. For a moment the knight froze still on the back of his stallion, eyes intently surveying the scene in the distance – the tiltyard rising behind the many-colored marquees and quivering flags – then guided the mount downhill. The wind wafted the triumphant sound of the trumpet, the faint voice of the herald, whose words he could not discern, and the bellows of the throng that followed. Many noble knights of mettle gathered for this occasion, led by King Philip himself, to pay homage to the old traditions nurtured and kept for centuries. To partake in such events was considered the highest honor as was to walk away from the tiltyard with the main prize.

The weather for the joust happened to be clear and clement - sunrays glided over the first sprouts of grass and wind rustled, playing with heavy banners – therefore guests crammed all vacant seats on the benches and thronged in the king's lodge. The richest came dressed in their best attire, and their variegated crowd loomed ahead, shapeless and silent.

When Sephiroth neared the gates wherethrough the knights entered the main arena, the herald loudly proclaimed, "Sephiroth Mensil, Viscount du Bugey!" His adversary, the young heir to the Duke of Burgundy, has been announced just moments before. The youth wore a luxurious blue-and-white plumage on his helmet, which made him look like an exotic bird. With a smirk, the viscount tucked his hair underneath his heaume, through the narrow slit scrutinizing the knight in a scarlet cloak as he passed through the gates and circled the tiltyard. The herald's words were indistinct and remote, not that he needed to listen attentively to know what the latter was saying. The ritual was always the same, and it was the twelfth one in his lifetime; the herald recited numerous feats of arms, and people rose as one, cheering and screaming on top of their voices.

Peasants loved tournaments and for more reasons than just enjoying the spectacular show. Only here, only now, they could watch their seigniors fall and laugh at them.

His steed snorted as if in disdain, echoing his thoughts. The gates to the arena opened, and louder roar filled the air, followed by waterfall of flowers and handkerchiefs, which bestrewed the sand around his horse. It was a share of attention he received from the female spectators, attention he rarely returned, aside from a very few number of occasions he decided to accept it, but they were seldom and short. His gaze dashed towards the lodges of nobility, settling on the King's makeshift throne as he declined his head slowly and with dignity, contrasting with many knights who made obsequious bows to earn Philip's attention. In response, the king curtly gestured for the fight to begin.

"My lance," Sephiroth addressed someone behind the tiltyard's fence without turning around. His order was heard, and in an instant he was holding a ten-feet-long wooden spear. Sun rays merrily played on its iron tip as he carefully weighed the weapon in his hand and, satisfied, got a better grip of it in the middle. The vexation the knight always experienced in the presence of a large audience he never felt propinquity towards was ousted by excitement of the nearing battle – it was what he lived for and what he was the best at.

In the silence that ensued, the trumpet sounded triumphantly; the crowd froze as the knights dug their spurs into the sides of their stallions, urging them forward. Dirt and grass flying asunder from underneath the hooves, both destriers scurried towards each other and met in the middle of the tiltyard, crashing like two steel towers. Through the slit, Sephiroth saw the knight drawing nearer and aimed his spear for the shield, having taken a note of a spot in the middle of it, among the intricate patterns of his rival's arms and motto. Having leaned to the left, he fractured his lance against the steel-plated wooden pavis, forcing his opponent to sway from the sheer force of the impact. Philip's spear broke against Sephiroth's helmet, and such was ill luck that the leather laces burst and the heaume fell under the steed's hooves. A glistening waterfall of molten silver cascaded over the steel covered shoulders, meandered along the upright back and spilled against the jet-black equine croup. An angry crease appeared between two thin eyebrows as Sephiroth abruptly turned the horse around and galloped to the opposite end of the tiltyard, head haughtily thrown back.

The crowd rose, cheering for Philip's success when the said knight brandished his sword, flaunting the victory Sephiroth had not yet given him.

"Lance," the viscount flung a curt, cold order, and clenched his fingers around another spear someone obediently procured nearly at once.

The events of the previous minutes repeated themselves - horses rushed towards each other, ripping unyielding air, as though infected with impatience of their masters; knights braced themselves, preparing for the shattering blow, and the air stilled, waiting for the scourge to strike. This time Sephiroth repeated his hold, only leaning slightly forward to combine the devastating power of the steed's impetus with his own, and achieved a complete and unquestionable victory when his opponent futilely swung his arms and crashed down with a dull thud. Philip's weapon harmlessly slid along the steel coat of the viscount's mail.

The crowd bellowed, cries turning even more ecstatic and rapturous when the knight on the ground stubbornly moved, trying to rise to his feet. Sephiroth circled the fallen, forcing his horse to prance and fill the air with a loud neigh, as though mocking the defeated opponent. A smug smile touched the edges of thin lips when Philip scrambled to his feet and, having unsheathed the short sword, readied himself for a fight.

With grace of a man who spent his entire life in saddle, Viscount du Bugey alighted and in turn bared his bastard sword, meeting his rival's angry glare with a cold, confident glance, which had the power to cool the most fervid.

The knights neared each other to the shouts of hundreds of voices. Sephiroth slowly circled the opponent, then lunged swiftly, having hit the shield the younger knight covered himself with. Philip tried to hurl him aside, but the silver-haired knight delivered another blow and yet another, forcing his opponent to retreat without giving him time or room for a counterattack.

When it came to one-on-one sword fight, Sephiroth could rarely find a sound match.

The third blow was so hard that the son of the Duke couldn't remain on his feet, falling to his knees and losing both the shield and the brand Sephiroth cast away with the toe of his steel boot. The tip of his bastard sword neared Philip's bare throat, freezing mere inches away from his bobbing Adam's apple. Silver head tilted to the side, the viscount meaningfully glanced at the Duke's son, emerald sparks merrily dancing in deep, piercing-green eyes.

These children were too young, he thought, awaiting two words from his disarmed adversary who now possessed but a wounded pride, a poor weapon against the sharp steel.

"I yield."

The faint faltering whisper finally escaped the fallen knight's lips, and Sephiroth lowered his sword. Having looked up, he sank in the expanse of the endless spring skies, unaware of the pair of azure eyes fixed on the same sight leagues away from the tiltyard.

It was the second month of spring, 1346, the thirty-first spring of Sephiroth's life.

* * *

Genesis intently surveyed the small room, eyes settling on the window that overlooked the beautiful building of the St-Benigne Cathedral's tall belfry regally towering above Dijon. From its elegant tip, the city would seem so small – a toy city, filled with toy life. The redhead specifically chose this inn, the only one close to the church, so that he could hear the heavy, disquieting toll of bells. Scraps of sky flickered in the chinks of the window's intricate frame, their tender hues spring-blue and yet somehow discolored, as cloth excessively washed by a diligent laundress.

Lips stretching into an unpleasant smirk, Genesis neared the table whereat the dim glass of a wine bottle gleamed. One of France's finest drinks, known as Burgundy wine, was rumored to be the best in Dijon, the capital and heart of the eponymous Duchy.

When the bells rang eleven times, the redhead carefully pulled his scarlet gloves on and poured the white powder into one of the goblets. Having filled it up with the ruby liquid, he watched the foam hiss and dissipate, gently shaking the drink until the last traces of poison disappeared. The Italian alchemist from his home town, Toulouse, never revealed its name, afraid of the repercussions that would follow should the redhead fall into the hands of the Holy Inquisition and undergo excessive torture. The torture chambers of the Dominicans brethren were renowned for their executioners who could break even the strongest of spirits. For a moment, Genesis froze, as an actor before going on stage and playing his part, and satisfied, struck the pose of a thoughtful monk absorbed in prayer.

He didn't have to wait long before the door to the room creaked, having let a small, stout man through. He wore the same white frock and black cloak Genesis did, only his bore an emblem of a dog with a torch in its mouth. The Order of Saint Dominic had an equivocal name for its brothers – the Dominicans or the '_domini canes_', which in Latin stood for '_the hounds of God_', and hounds they were indeed, brainless and avid for blood.

'_So the dramatis persona has arrived_,' Genesis thought, offering a seat to his fellow Dominican.

"Good morning, Brother Genesis," the bald man uttered a cheerful greeting, to which the redhead smiled equally joyously.

"You came in a good hour, Brother Jean."

No, this monk was not a hound even - hounds were too noble; he was a rat.

While his fellow Dominican was trying to seat his corpulent frame on a chair, the redhead took an occasion and sipped from the goblet, the taste of the delicate drink - not too sweet or too sour – a prelude to the words he was going to say.

"Would you like some wine?"

"No, no, I am obliged to refuse," the old monk hastily shook his head, like a porcelain Chinese figurine.

A shadow of vexation passed over Genesis' face. The hypocritical piety was a nuisance, but, luckily, he was not in a hurry. Flashing another smile that never melted the ice in azure eyes, he reclined on the back of his chair, a goblet stem in his long fingers.

"What is the latest news from the provinces?"

"The work of God is moving slowly," sighed Brother Jean. "It has been a while since we found a large hotbed of heresy, being thankful for small mercies, trifles per se – a couple of the Fraticelli here, a few witches there. I remember the good years," his face broke into a blissful smile, "when I was young, just a clerk for the Great Inquisition, and we routed out the heresy of Fra Dolcino. The heretic was castrated and torn to pieces, and the succubus of his wife – burnt alive. They screamed as the demons were leaving their bodies. This is how we should treat all heretics, instead of giving them too much freedom and letting the Devil do his horrible work among the gullible sheep."

Genesis said nothing in response to this frantic speech, and nothing changed on his face, just a faint, barely visible smirk touched the edges of rich lips and was gone before the bald monk noticed anything.

"The Burundian is excellent," the redhead remarked and poured more wine into the empty goblet. With his gaze Brother Jean avidly followed the slender hand as it brought the drink to lush lips of its holder. "Do continue. I am listening to the truth God has put into your mouth, Brother."

"In the Papal bull, '_Unam Sanctam_', His Holiness was explicit. We are in possession of the two swords Luke had talked about in the Scripture, the spiritual sword and the secular sword. It is one of the greatest sins to treat those words with indolence. God has given us power and responsibility over the souls of the laity." The Dominican reached out, took the untouched goblet and gulped it, so engrossed in the speech that he didn't even notice he drank wine to wet his throat. "Because the End is nigh, and who but us would be held responsible for the work we didn't accomplish…" He carried on, filling with enthusiasm, which the strong Burgundy had a lot to do with.

Genesis relaxed, closing his eyes and letting his attention slip and wander to matters more pleasant than the babbling of the bald monk. He occasionally nodded upon hearing bits and pieces of his interlocutor's speech, but generally the words blended into the purl of a spring streamlet. The monk gradually changed the subject from heresies to Apocalypse and then to the unsatisfactory state of the Church. The redhead's look was vacant, but Brother Jean seemed to be extremely excited about the fact of finding such a grateful listener and noticed nothing.

The Dominican monk had just finished another passage about demons when Genesis sighted that his thick fingers began to tremble and he communed with the spirits a lot more often than at the beginning of their conversation. He knew it was the reaction to poison, which whetted unquenchable thirst.

It was time.

"But isn't murder considered a sin?" The redhead interrupted the monk without ceremony when the latter was particularly vividly describing an execution. Brother Jean gulped down an entire goblet and then instructively raised his forefinger.

"It is the most common delusion, brother. We don't kill; we cleanse the soul in the purgatorial flames to free it from the sinful body and elevate it, letting it appear before the throne of God purified."

Genesis had very strong doubts that his mother, who spent her entire life tilling the land and milking cows in the vicinity of Toulouse, needed to be cleansed.

"Yet, what if a person had strong faith? Say, he was a Cathar…"

"Cathars were heretics and they knew nothing of God's holiness."

"They were saying that God and Satan were equal and separate beginning; that the visible world wasn't the God's creation, but the Devil's." Genesis haughtily tilted his head sideways, brushing a wave of auburn hair with a brusque move of his wrist. "It is just metaphysics, don't you think, Brother Jean?"

The elder Dominican chocked with indignation. "Our God is the beginning and the end, the Alpha and the Omega, and the lack of faith in His omnipotence is the same as the lack of faith in His existence."

Shaft of sunlight sprinkled into the room, illumined the serene face and dark-gold hair of a younger monk and broke into myriad of sparks against the glass of a wine bottle. The triumphant ringing of the church bells filled the small room, and Genesis' eyes, a frightening, devilish azure, blazed up with strange flames when he finally heard the long-awaited sign.

It was time.

"You keep talking about faith, but Peter Abelard suggested using reasoning…"

"Peter Abelard was a heretic!" The bald monk squealed, sputtering. He tried to rise, but suddenly sank back, heavily reclining against the back of his chair. Genesis knew why the strength left him.

"If you think about it," the redhead continued as if uninterrupted, "then the whole creation of men starts to seem a theatric play." The elder monk's eyes widened, anger swirling in their dark depths. "The fall of Lucifer was an… _allegoria ac de cigno ad lapsum hominis_. He was God's most faithful angel; we are God's perfect creation. Satan fell because he craved for knowledge; we fell because we hungered after the same, and He, the omniscient Creator, knew it. Don't you think he was just bored being alone in his Universe and created us to lay aside his tedium? All our struggles, all our pain and tears is just," Genesis' voice was turning louder, more ruthless and more passionate, "an act He watches to brighten up?"

"You lack faith, Brother Genesis. You must confess now and lay your troubles to His feet or…"

"Or what?" They never understood him. None of them. They did not even try. "It is you who will soon need a confession."

As if in corroboration of his words, the Dominican monk suddenly coughed and clutched his stomach with both hands.

"Wh-what is happening to me?" His uncomprehending gaze shifted from Genesis to the window and then back to the redhead's face. Fright distorted his features, breaking their integrity, a memorable, disturbing sight.

The redhead rose and dramatically raised his hand, enjoying every moment of the enemy's confusion; the monk rose with him, recoiling.

"These are effects of a deadly poison, Brother Jean, and I forgot to bring the antidote." The redhead took the first step, towering above the short man, and the latter involuntarily repeated his movement backwards. It was Genesis' favorite passage from the Bible, and he perfectly cited it, keeping every pause and stress in place. "And when he had opened the fourth seal I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, 'Come and see'."

"What demon trickery are you…?" A scream was a song, despair – a feast.

"And I looked, and behold a pale horse…"

"Leave me, demon in flesh," Brother Jean continued to back, hastily crossing himself, his gestures becoming more and more jerky, eyes widening, and voice fading to barely heard whispers, "Go away, devil's spawn… _in nomine Patris, et Filii… et Spiri…tus San…_"

The monk never finished, dropping to his knees, and in an instant sprawling across the floor in shudders, choking in death rattles, white foam coating his lips. Eyes were dimming, turning glassy, like empty mirrors, as lips were still moving and moving, silently, desperately trying to finish vain words. And then it all stopped.

The corpse lay still.

With his hand still lifted up to the ceiling, the redhead neared the dark heap of what used to be a man mere instants ago, circled it, intently watching for any sign of movement. Finally convinced that the Dominican brother had died, Genesis regally tossed his auburn head, setting his vacant eyes against the wall.

"...and his name that sat on him was Death," he finished in measured tones and with an evanescent shadow of a smirk on rich lips, let his hand fall.

The act reached its pinnacle.

Then Genesis threw off his cassock, put it into the knapsack, and checked if the dagger was in place. Before exiting the room, the redhead remembered to cover the dead body out of some sense of twisted honor.

Suddenly he felt indescribably tired.

* * *

Jade-green eyes, narrowed and thoughtful, swept the grand hall from the entrance door to the furthest corner hidden in quivering sheens of torch flames. Having leaned against the wall, Sephiroth could safely see the convivial shoal and avoid being a part of the jovial celebration. A goblet was absent-mindedly clenched between his fingers, and from time to time the knight took a sip of the astringent drink.

Somewhere in the throng Sephiroth could spot his stepmother's bright-green dress and a wave of her silken, brown hair. Marguerite rarely missed a chance to partake in such amusements, and – unlike him – charming and sweet, always attracted attention, like a vivid butterfly on green grass; however, Sephiroth knew, whose attention she craved the most.

His.

The moment his stepmother shot a glance at him, the silver-haired knight lowered his eyes to watch his vague, quivering reflection on the rippled surface of the ruby liquid.

"I say, this was a stunning victory," a cheerful voice proclaimed to his right and a no less cheerful face, framed in red beard and graying red hair, appeared before the knight. A friendly tap on his shoulder concluded the greeting of one of the most powerful men in France. "Don't think I hold a grudge against you for stealing the prize from my son; he is young and needed a lesson from a seasoned warrior. Arrogance is a bad advisor in any battle."

The viscount bowed his head, short, silver tresses touching his chest, clad in dark-blue silk. "I appreciate the praise, milord."

"Skip the pleasantries, Sephiroth, we are not at the royal reception." The Duke of Burgundy uttered a chuckle. "Your stepmother makes me feel miserable, and now you act as though you had swallowed a lance."

Sephiroth's reply was a wry smile. "Humph, I assumed you did not approach me to talk about art or general court gossip."

"You are a strange person, Sephiroth. One never knows what is on your mind, yet somehow you are always right. Devilish acumen?" Odo raised his goblet. "I am being sent to Guyenne, and we all know what it means. In bygone days I battled Robert of Artois, and it seems the time to relive my youth has finally come."

"Is it due to a threat of the English invasion again, milord?"

"Have we been at peace for long since that dynasty dispute?" The redheaded Duke roared with loud laughter, and several curious faces turned their way. "His Majesty favors me, and I am of more use to him on the battlefield than as a part of a peace delegation."

"I heard it had not gone that bad."

"You heard. The English bastards sabotaged our efforts, and I am not a man of fine words. I wish I had the power to slit their throats – these are the only negotiations I know. To France, Sephiroth?"

"To France," quietly echoed the silver-haired knight.

Joyous music and voices of wassailing nobles filled the hall. Dancing pairs began whirling in the middle of the space between the tables, bright dresses flitting like wings of arabesque birds, and Sephiroth silently watched the merriment unfold and surround him, remaining cold and detached amidst the bustle.

He felt the spring would be short.

* * *

In Ancient Rome it was called a _lunapar_, a house for the she-wolves, and now it was humbly renamed into the _maison de tolerance, _the name changing, the mask changing, but the essence, which hid underneath, remaining invariable over the centuries. Men came here to receive pleasures, and no matter how hard the clergy fought against prostitution, it thrived and would thrive, because nature was often stronger than any Christian morale.

Genesis hated brothels, hated the haggard faces of women, their mechanical submissiveness and complete lack of challenge. It was better to find a feather-brained peasant girl, cite a couple of lines from Rigaut de Berbezilh or William of Aquitaine, and profess a never dying love, whereupon she would do anything for him; she would obey willingly, eagerly, with a lively spark in her naive gaze, hoping that it was enough to chain his bottomless heart to hers. How hopeless. Genesis never stayed for more than a few nights even when hands were wrung and tears were shed.

Yet, the brothels were irreplaceable when Genesis needed a quick, easy escape from his memories.

Having leaned against the rough wooden headboard, the redhead let his eyelids fall, nails sinking into the dirty mass of dark hair with such force that blood appeared underneath the thin, unevenly cut crescents. With a whimper, the woman kneeled between his legs – an animal, which slept, ate, and pleased men, knowing no other purposes of its putrid existence.

A warm tongue touched his heated flesh, gently sliding from the bottom to top, slowly stroking the most sensitive parts, each caress erupting in series of pleasant quivers. Genesis took a deep, sharp breath, clutching a clot of the whore's hair as pleasure sharpened, nearing its pinnacle. The girl was assiduous, not a novice in what she was doing, soon earning her coppers when the redhead attained completion and tumbled over the edge of saccharine passion with a quiet moan.

His memory went blank, his mind shook off the weight of his body, and, floating in pleasant limbo, Genesis slumped against the bed, arms curling around his naked thighs. Brother Jean's glassy eyes flashed before his inner gaze for the last time and vanished in darkness forever.

Genesis found oblivion.

Silver, the redhead suddenly remembered, emerging from the sea of welcome laxity; liquid silver, seeping through his fingers and strewing the bedcovers. Soft, cool ash.

He was smiling a frightening, empty smile.

The redhead left the airless, scarcely alight room in an hour, having already forgotten the face of the dark-haired whore, the lice-ridden bed and the acrid smell of dire poverty. Shivering with cold and wrapping himself up in a well-worn green cloak, Genesis swiftly headed for the St-Benigne Cathedral. He had to change his appearance before dawn and before anyone from the brethren recognized him.

Genesis could wear different masks, change them as a snake would change its skin, yet his essence always remained the same.

Hollow.


	3. Chapter II: Truths and lies

_**A/N: **__**Short list of names, personalities, etc:**_

_Thomas Aquinas_ – another famous medieval philosopher and theologian (XIII cent.).

_Sanbenito_ – special disgraceful clothing the convict had to wear before the auto-da-fe.

_Plutarch_ – the Greek historian (46-120 AD).

_Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!__ (fr.)_ – The king is dead! Long live the king!

* * *

_**Chapter II.**_

_**Truths and lies.**_

'_Let my brother come to the ruins, draw water from a river with his cupped hand and sow among stones.' (A. Valentinov, 'Spartacus' angel.')_

It was said that most victims of the Holy Inquisition were mercifully strangled before the auto-da-fe. It was said that people, who were being burnt alive, suffocated from smoke before the flames could do fatal damage. His mother was denied both.

That memorable day in Toulouse was clear and windy, preventing the wood from burning, yet once the flames kindled, they spread quickly, and a raging scarlet wall arose around the redheaded, thin as a reed, frame that was tied to the pillar in the middle of a pile of brushwood and logs. Genesis didn't remember the sentence as it was being solemnly read aloud; he didn't remember the ceremonial entry of the Dominicans and clergy, responsible for the execution, seeing but the flames. A crowd gathered to watch the witch burn, drawn to the sight of her suffering as hungry wolves by the smell of carrion, and in it the redhead froze, thoughtless, voiceless, helpless. A seven-year-old child, he had no strength to cry or move, let alone try to wrench away from the grip of two adult monks. Afterwards, there was naught Genesis hated more than this overwhelming feeling of childish helplessness.

_Behold __the power of Catholic God, kneel before it in fright because all of us are His slaves and pride is a mortal sin._

"For God so loved the world," his mother began, as if about to read from the Bible, lying on a heap of fresh hay and gazing at the sun, and for a moment she made the redhead believe that he was dreaming; "that he gave his only begotten Son, so that whosoever believeth in him should not perish," she emitted a squeal as red-hot tongues licked her bare feet. Her thin frame writhed, but then she forced herself with some inhuman strength to fling her arms upwards and finish although her sanbenito was already aflame. Her voice shot up towards the skies, strengthened by hellish pain, as a mortally wounded bird. "But have everlasting life!"

The last word turned into a feral howl and she disappeared in the flames completely. Genesis began to shake, but tearless eyes were still glued to the sight of execution, as though he was unable to turn away; as though he was trying to remember, to _carve_ her last moments into his heart with a white-hot steel rod.

_Listen to me, Genesis, listen, my son, for it is more important than my life. Believe in Him in spite of what they do to me or to you. Cry, smile, mourn and rejoice, but never lose your faith..._

The thin frame was burning as a torch, hair, clothing, and pillar. Wind carried puffs of greasy, black smoke to the side. She was silent now, only deafening crackling of flames remained, mockingly concealing dark contours of his mother's body. Only now did Genesis realize that the crowd around him was raging, bellowing, _'Death to heretics_!' and, _'Burn the witch_!' A single beast with hundreds of heads and mouths, men, women, children were joined in a macabre ecstasy beyond any other he had ever witnessed. Masses of people rolled in, like foaming waves, and like waves broke against the frail barrage of crossbowmen and Inquisition guards. Angered, phrenetic faces blurred, and when the redhead recoiled, staggering, the monk's hands caught him again.

_Mother, why didn't He come to save us?_

The amazement was foreign, as if stolen from spectators, because He was Almighty and He loved them, and...

Another procession appeared at the end of the square: the narrow chain of Inquisitors walked in a grand manner, monks in white cassocks following the lower ranking members who carried two long cases, covered in bright yellow cloth. They neared two empty piles of wood and placed the coffins on top, torching them while singing a solemn litany. Later he learned that those were freshly exhumed corpses of those who were rumored to be Cathars; amongst them, was his dead father.

Then the realization finally dawned. Then Genesis dropped to his knees, chocking, screaming, and his cries merged with those rapturous ones of the crowd. Somewhere far away the redhead heard one of the monks saying, "What should we do with this black sheep?" His hands clutched dirty stones. The faint wind playfully disheveled his hair, whispering something into his ear, words he could not discern.

_Mother, why didn't I die? Why couldn't I follow you?_

"If he can repeat the prayer after us, then the devil's work could be undone. Do you hear us?"

Genesis nodded, swallowing his tears, and prayed with them to the God that no longer existed. In such way, humiliated, in dirt, brought to its knees, hatred was born. Despite his mothers' desperate entreaties, despite the prayers of monks, which were as eloquent as their threats, he had lost it.

His faith.

* * *

Genesis bit his knuckles, suppressing a yell, writhing under the coverlet on a narrow bed in a small monastic cell that resembled prison. The redhead used to scream and even beat his head against the walls after these nightmares, until in one of the Dominican monasteries he was proclaimed demon-possessed and cleansed. He still had scars on his left shoulder and on his back from that cleansing.

Shadows quivered in the corners of his eyes, emerging from darkness and disappearing back when he turned his head to take a closer look. Voices sounded in his head; they were calling out for him, voices of the dead. The redhead could hear his mother's words, which then merged with death cries of poisoned monks, monks with slit throats and entreaties of the tortured victims of Inquisition.

Genesis began shaking violently. Those voices spoke to him.

His hand blindly groped for the knapsack, reached inside, hastily rummaged through clothes and finally found them, three bronze tablets with words carved on their surface. Moon bled with faint red light through the small window, and in it Genesis saw.

Laudare. Benedicere. Praedicare. To praise. To bless. To preach.

He read quietly, putting them aside and reaching for the last one. It was a smooth wooden sliver, one word scorched on it, its curlicues dark against the lighter background.

Veritas.

Truth.

Those were the four mottoes of the Dominican Order, yet last one was the most powerful and the deadliest of all. Truth.

Genesis' trembling fingers clutched the wooden piece, as though it was the only anchor in the world, brought it to his eyes. The first three were no longer helping as they did before. Lips moved, whispering the word, written on the wooden piece.

Truth.

In moments like this his mind resembled a shattered stained-glass window; Genesis had to glue it back together, find some rationality to cling onto, and that wooden sliver seemed the only remedy. Voices subsided, shadows drew back.

Truth.

There were many truths in this world. They interacted, they intertwined with each other and changed, such little personal truths. They were born, aged and died with people. It was life, in motion, in change, beautiful glistening stream.

God, which Thomas Aquinas described in his works, immobile, perfect God never changed.

God was death.

… The chapel was an unremarkable premise, a small room with a clay floor, two rows of wooden benches and an altar with a crucifix. There was only one truly fascinating detail that stood out against the vapid background as a king in a crowd of peasants; Genesis' eyes fell on it the moment he entered. It was a round leaded panel with an amazing Apocalypse ornament, all demons, angels, dragons and serpents painted in such a delicate manner it made him freeze in his tracks. The redhead could see every tail, every mouth, and every head of all creatures, joined in a thrilling in its senselessness and brutality battle.

How could a modest abbey like this one afford such an expensive piece of art?

"Brother Genesis," he heard a senile voice, and reluctantly lowered azure eyes to see a short and bony old man, walking towards him.

"Abbot Francis."

The redhead took slightly trembling wrinkled hand into his own and kissed a large signet ring with respect, even as lush lips quirked up a bit, an expression he was so used to that it slithered onto his face without him even noticing.

Genesis was used to mockery; after all, what should he do in a world that craved for Apocalypse; that bemoaned its sinful ways in public and sank deeper and deeper into the abyss when no one was to witness its fall? He received a perfect education in Paris, he read Aristotle and Plutarch, and he's even been to Palestine once. All his logic told him this world deserved to be laughed at, since he was not capable of pitying it. It was, if not vain, then a completely worthless undertaking.

"Let's take a walk, brother."

Before the chapel door closed behind him, Genesis glanced back at the stained-glass window, only now realizing that the church was built in such a way that rays of sun would touch it every time the star of the day rose.

A monk and an Abbot descended the stairs and found themselves in a courtyard, jammed with structures; to their left were the living quarters where Genesis has just come from and to their right the redhead noticed stables, an oil mill and a vast cellar.

Abbot Francis minced along, trying to keep up with the redhead's swift long strides. His wrinkled face was lit up with happiness and pride; the old man loved his Abbey.

"This is an oil mill," he gestured to the one-storey wooden building. "With God's help it was rebuilt two years ago after the fire. And a terrible fire it was… We barely saved the whole Abbey then."

The tinkling of Abbot's voice annoyed. Genesis squeezed out a pleasant smile.

"I saw a beautiful leaded panel in your chapel. Mind if I ask where you got it from?"

"Italy. Finest craftsmen live in Italy nowadays."

They neared the wall, which surrounded the Abbey and made it look like a fortress or a small city, which was the more accurate way to describe it. It lived its whole separate life, looking down at King's laws, obeying monastic rules only.

Genesis looked at the scenery, getting a bird's eye view of the valley below, green meadows dotted with trees, and between them a stream serpentined. It was time to move onto something bigger, something he had planned a long time ago.

"Where are we, Abbot Francis?"

"This is Mave river," the old man answered with eagerness. "Wadicourt is north, Estrees is north-east with Crecy on the other side."

Genesis shot another glance at the valley, bent with hills as a sea surface with waves.

"I love Burgundy."

"It is a good place for God's children, brother, unlike Languedoc, which is a breeding-ground for heresy."

Cerulean eyes flashed. He shouldn't have reminded Genesis of his mother's death and humiliation.

His placid mood suddenly changed to anger.

That was when he decided the Abbot had to die.

* * *

Horses were whirling away at full speed. A small detachment of about a dozen of knights was chasing a larger group of ill-sorted horsemen, which was obviously at disadvantage, despite their greater numbers. For an hour the chase continued along the dusty road, clutched between two copses as a thin piece of metal in tongs; the ground trembled underneath from the constant hoofbeat and steeds raised clouds of dust. Cloaks were fluttering in strong wind; horsemen of the leading group had multicolored clothing on them, while those of the steadily overtaking detachment wore identical bright-blue cloaks with yellow stripes, known in all Nevers county as colors of Count's vassals. Lathery from the long and furious galloping horses snorted, shedding white flakes of foam; rare sunrays, which pierced thick friable clouds as spears, glittered on steel pauldrons and helmets.

Suddenly one knight on a huge coal black steed drew away; unsheathing his bastard sword, he dug his spurs deeper into the bloodied sides of his horse. It picked up speed, straining its last strength, and started to overtake the ill-matched group. The rider on steed's back froze, resembling a feral predator, ready for its deadly jump.

The horseman in a worn-out yellow cloak, which was constantly falling behind, heard the hoofbeat, turned around in fear and clumsily swung his hand-axe. Thin double-edged blade flew up in response, falling askance, leaving carmine trail behind. Beheaded horseman flung his arms, as though still trying to stay in the saddle, and collapsed on the ground, lavishly spraying grass with blood. The knight raised himself a little in the stirrups and another body joined the first one, howling and violently shuddering as a fish, thrashing about against the ice; long bastard sword cut off his arm. Unlucky horseman's steed became frenzied from the smell of blood, blindly rushing towards the coppice and disappearing in the trees.

The chase continued, and the leader in blue and silver cloak began to lag behind again; even his huge stallion got tired from the weight of a knight in full plated armor and could not keep the pace for a long time.

Sephiroth was vexed; it seemed emerald flames raged in helmet's eye slits. He felt his stallion's strength was dwindling.

Meanwhile two detachments turned off the road and onto a narrow pathway, which passed around a small lake and disappeared in the clump of bushes. Horses burst into the verdure, leaving a visible trail of broken branches and trampled down grass behind them. Highwaymen – it was just the very case when Count's guards encountered peasants, driven to despair by exorbitant church and nobility's requisitions – managed to break off even further, using their full advantage of speed and maneuverability.

Riders darted out of the bushes and into a small mossy glade, and then the highwaymen slammed the mousetrap.

Another, even larger detachment of men in many-colored cloaks, yelling and swinging their homely weapons, dashed out of the coppice behind, quickly encircling the knights. The leading group also halted, joining in with the others. Count's knights found themselves completely surrounded.

Sephiroth didn't lose his head, it seemed he was expecting just that, forming his column in wedge; highwaymen serried together.

"Let's finish them off and sell their armor!" Shouts arose in the motley crowd.

The knight on the raven black steed waved his hand, silently ordering an attack, and took his place on the tip of the wedge. Two detachments scurried towards each other; the air was rent with heartrending yells and neigh, merging with clangs of clashing swords into a deafening cacophony.

Bastard sword flickered, darting with blinding speed; the leader in silver and blue rarely needed a second hit to finish off his opponent. Iron was grinding against iron, highwaymen fell dead, and he didn't seem to spare himself or his stallion, delivering devastating blows yet forgetting to defend himself, relying on the durability of his full plate armor. Those rare blades that hit him helplessly slid along the firm twine of Milan chainmail ringlets.

However, knights were not invincible. Two of them fell at the beginning; one missed the thrust of a short sword and another was dragged down by enraged footpads. Once on the ground he didn't have time to rise; highwaymen hung on him as flies would swarm all over the rotting corpse of a horse, tore away his helmet and slit his throat.

Yet, despite the advantage, knights in blue and yellow finally managed to elude the encirclement. The rest was a matter of minutes. Forming a long thin chain across the glade, Nevers' vassals urged their mounts towards the footpads, who huddled together and had no time to regroup. Laterally it looked like scythe's blade, which tore through lush verdant grass; only instead of stalks it mowed down people. Poorly armed and trained, the ill-assorted detachment didn't stand a chance.

Sephiroth drew the rein, turned his steed and rose in the stirrups. Parrying one unskilled blow with his bastard sword and blocking another with his shield, the knight plunged his blade into someone's chest with a detestable crunch, turned it and freed. Blood spilled onto his breastplate, resembling a wingspan. Two horsemen came flying at him. The knight didn't have enough time to turn his steed around, yet again the short sword harmlessly slid along the plates of his armor. In turn coal black horse pranced, and Sephiroth's bastard sword crashed down at the enemy with the power of a battering ram, cleaving his body from shoulder to chest. The second one managed to escape.

The melee was over. A couple of dozens of footpads lay on the ground, wounded or dead, and among them three bodies in Nevers colors could be seen. Two highwaymen escaped; Sephiroth decided not to bother chasing them.

The knight in silver and blue gracefully dismounted, took his helmet off and held his heated, sweaty face up to the gentle cool breeze with genuine pleasure. Bloodied silver hair scattered on his shoulders. Sheathing his sword, Sephiroth bared a small dagger, also known as misericorde, bent over the moaning withering man, seized his hair with a gloved hand and slit his throat. The body went limp as the knight took a step towards another mortally wounded enemy.

Other knights followed the example of their leader, alighted and began dealing final blows to wounded footpads. The air filled with entreaties and death rattles.

However, one of them continued to stand aloof, intently watching the scene. When Sephiroth straightened, he took his helmet off and approached, passing round the dead bodies and trying to avoid stepping into the pools of dark blood. Their eyes met, cold emerald gems and frightened hazel ones, which stood out against the pale face.

"Messire… you have blood on your face."

Sephiroth pursed thin lips, his face kept deadpan.

"Have you ever seen a man, who lay on the ground, trying to gather his entrails back into ripped up abdomen?" The youth paled even more, covering his mouth with his hand, as though trying to keep the bile inside. The knight squatted and wiped his dagger on the cloak of a deadman. "It anyone tells you that the war is glorious, don't believe them, Alber. Heroes are for people; and we are left with… this."

The silver-haired leader straightened and gestured towards the bloody medley.

Alber hastily nodded.

"But is there any other…"

"It is war," he dropped those words coldly and turned around. "Tackle up!"

The knights quickly mounted. Sephiroth flung himself into the saddle, attached his helmet to the pommel and unhurriedly set out towards the dusty road.

Horses and men were tired. They needed a rest.

* * *

_Drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-drop…_

In leaden stillness every falling drop sounded like a tiny bell, as it fell and splashed against the stone of an altar.

Genesis stirred in darkness, bored of waiting. A body, clad in dark garments, lay in a disfigured heap behind the altar. His hands were marred with blood, still fresh, still smelling, and blood was trickling down the wooden face of a crucified God. Droplets were making that sound as they were slowly falling out of his blind wooden eyes.

At last he heard faint shuffling of feet, and then saw two wan candle flames flicker, illumining the bony frame of an Abbot. The beautiful stained-glass window was shrouded with thick darkness.

"Brother Genesis, why did you call..." Then his gaze must have found the crucifix, for the redhead heard a faint gasp.

Like a cat on a hunt, Genesis appeared from behind the altar, gracefully slipped towards Abbot Francis, who was staring at the crying crucifix, immobile as the crucified God himself.

"Brother Genesis, Jesus is crying. Blood." In quivering flames of candles Abbot's face was a plaster cast and only eyes were dark as tiny voids filled with fear.

"Can God cry? Or laugh? Or love and suffer?" Genesis' curt melodic chuckle filled the chapel, echoing, reflecting from the walls. It seemed he didn't care about the presence of a priest at all, addressing himself. His voice turned into an insinuating purr as he continued, circling the altar. "Can God make sacrifices? His Son died for us, expiated our sins, but was it… death? How could it be called a sacrifice if God lost his Son just for three days? What are three days compared to an eternity?"

He neared the old man and showed his hands. The Abbot uttered a shriek, dashing towards the dark clad body with all the speed his old body was capable of.

"You killed him!"

The redhead arrogantly hemmed, turning his gaze towards the stained-glass window.

"If there is truth in this world, then, yes, I killed him."

"Devil's spawn," Francis whispered, shaking. "God, give me strength to see the light and avoid all temptations of darkness, God, give me power to…"

"Ah, I was called that quite often," Genesis interrupted his mumblings with another dramatic gesture.

The Abbot shrunk, clutching the body in dark cassock.

"What did we do to you, demon?"

Genesis shook his head with pleasure and crimson sparks flared in his auburn hair; he didn't have to wear that wig with a tonsure any longer.

"My mother died for your lies. Such an unfortunate little discrepancy," he squatted, looking down at Abbot, cerulean eyes resembling two crimson tinged slits, "that Jesus is a liar."

Then he noticed that the Abbot wasn't breathing. He must have had a heart attack. Genesis shot a glance at two bodies, joined in one last macabre embrace. Angelic face was distorted by old profound hatred.

"If my mother returned to me three days later, I would have forgiven you all."

Then he staggered, clutching the back of a wooden bench. _They_ were calling out for him again, two more voices so clearly ringing in that clamor it made Genesis flinch and desperately look around, only to find two dead bodies sprawled on the clay floor. He looked up, at the leaded panel, which now played vivid colors in the rays of rising sun. It looked like beasts of Apocalypse were returning to life; the Red Dragon with seven heads uncoiled his thorny tail, bringing its terrible power down upon Michael and his angels.

The redhead swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. His hand found a wooden piece in his pocket, and he froze, calming himself; and the shadows stopped moving.

As the mind held onto the simple known facts to find rationality in this world of madness, so did Genesis' trembling fingers, clutching the sliver, carmine droplets streaming down his palm, flowing down the wooden piece, letters dark against the light background.

Veritas.

Truth.

* * *

When Sephiroth came down, the grand hall of the Chateau de Thil was dark and empty; only small crimson flames flickered in the huge fireplace, fickle signs of life in the realm of darkness and silence. He could not sleep. Taking a seat on the bench near the dais, he noticed another dark shadow, which sat in the chair under the blue and yellow canopy, where the Count himself would usually sit.

He was about to punish an insolent, when recognized his stepfather. He sat, reclining on the wooden back with a goblet in his hand.

"Sephiroth," he heard wonder in Count's deep voice.

"I couldn't sleep, father," he admitted, ascending the dais and taking a seat by his stepfather's side.

Louis silently poured him a glass of wine. Sephiroth accepted the goblet; ruby sparks danced on its surface. They drank.

"Philippe summoned all his peers," his stepfather began, taking another sip. "It was urgent. It could only mean one thing."

"Is it war with England?"

"We have been at war for the last eight years, even if the last engagement was our failure during the Battle of Sluys."

"When are you leaving for Paris?"

"Tomorrow. I answered Philippe's call." Sephiroth couldn't see Count's face, but his voice rang wearily. "I wouldn't want to hear '_Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!_' for the fifth time in my life. This time we shall win. This time we shall show those English dogs what a Lily can do."

Sephiroth smiled, raising his glass.

"To France, father."

"To France."

Delicate taste filled his mouth and Sephiroth swallowed wine with pleasure. He felt the war would begin soon, and with a strange thrill he desired it.

It was better than feeling that his life was becoming quite aimless.


	4. Chapter III: Prophet and flock

_Summary_: Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346. The story is, of course, fictional, but the setting will be kept close to reality.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_And I am more than happy to write them :) I am obsessed with history, with writing, with Sephiroth as the General and Genesis, so… yeah ^_^

And, yay, Seph and Gen will finally meet :)

* * *

_**Chapter III.**_

_**Prophet and flock.**_

"_Fear prophets and those prepared to die for truth, for as a rule they make many others die with them, often before them, at times instead of them." (Umberto Eco, "The name of the rose")._

Sephiroth pulled a loose flaxen shirt over his head, wiped his damp face with it and wrapped it around his waist. It was hot in the courtyard, sun shining down from pure unmarred welkin as a bright white-hot ring of molten iron. Silver eyebrows knitting, he lowered his bastard sword and let his gaze slide along the row of men, engrossed in a melee. He had the castle guards divided into two groups, fighting against each other on a sand covered arena just outside the second fortified wall with donjon triumphantly towering above them. The courtyard was filled with clang of clashing swords and curses that followed. Emerald eyes lingered on a young man, who was trying to throw off a larger opponent, unskillfully though, his stabs getting more desperate and disorderly each time his attempts failed.

The silver-haired knight raised his hand and ordered "Halt!" in a resounding calm voice. His opponent took a step back, breathing heavily; Sephiroth rarely restrained himself during spars, and often his vassals joked about actual battles being easier to fight.

"Your guard is unacceptable," the knight slowly neared a young man, who shrewdly blushed from shame. The throng of knights parted to let him pass and now gathered round, peering over his shoulder and softly laughing at unskilled youth.

Brusquely taking a step forward and thrusting, Sephiroth didn't meet even a slightest resistance, knocking the sword out of the opponent's hand.

"You didn't even try to defend yourself." The silver-haired knight continued sternly, giving the panting youth a piercing glance.

"I had no time, messire." Blush on his cheeks deepened. Sephiroth heard a burst of laughter from behind and shrugged.

"Pick up your sword. Take a stance. Here." He took youth under his arm, steadying so that his sword would be closer to his body. "Try defending yourself now."

This time blades clashed; the youth bashfully smiled and bowed, detaching.

"Thank you, messire."

"Speed," Sephiroth nodded, turned around, giving a crowd a significant look, "is the crucial element of the battle. But how would one expect to maintain it, holding the sword at arm's length?"

He was exaggerating a bit, yet they needed to remember the lesson he learnt on the battlefields a long time ago, when some of those young people were still clutching their mother's skirts.

"Carry on!" Waving aside, Sephiroth strode towards the vat filled with water, his gloved hand still gripping bastard sword. Clamor of renewed battle reached his ears.

"Sephiroth."

Suddenly woman's voice came from behind, melodious, low, pronouncing his name with a little hint of suggestion, obvious to him yet unapparent to anyone else, should there be a chance witness to their conversation.

The silver-haired knight reluctantly turned around, riveting his eyes on a tall slender frame in a dark green dress, tightly laced up on the chest, with a lighter silken cotehardie underneath and long wide sleeves, which fell on top of the skirt nearly sweeping the ground. Brown wavy hair loosely cascaded over her shoulders as though she was not married. Her dress perfectly matched her dark green eyes; they resembled his own, and he knew the reason. His stepmother, Marguerite, was King Philip's granddaughter; and inheriting his beauty and wit, she certainly inherited his obstinacy as well.

Sephiroth politely greeted her and accepted the goblet she was offering, yet his restrained gestures lacked any kind of response to her earlier suggestion. He and his stepmother were almost of the same age, and he lost count of all times she hinted she wouldn't object having an affair behind Count's back. Marguerite came up with dozens of reasons, one more preposterous than another, telling that his stepfather was getting too old to do matrimonial duties, disgraced her in the bedroom and even encouraged their possible amours.

Although he was no saint, his answer was always the same cold, reserved rejection. He would not betray his stepfather for the sake of any woman.

"I appreciate the concern, mother," Sephiroth uttered last word with a slightest touch of mockery and slowly sipped from the goblet. Marguerite smiled, watching him, although her disappointment was hard to miss, reflecting in a dark glance she shot at him.

"I invited a minstrel for dinner. Shall I expect your presence?"

"I have a lot of duties to perform," he declined politely, yet sternly, and changed the subject. "Do you have any news on the Count?"

Marguerite sighed, defeated once again, yet he knew it was temporary and her attempts would relapse.

"Louis is still in Paris and will be held by His Majesty until they could deal with all the issues for the upcoming military campaign, which could be until next month."

Sephiroth didn't know how to take those words, so he simply nodded and walked towards the donjon before she could seize his hand, feeling her gaze, almost tangible, following his every step. Unlike knights with pleasant appearances he was no philanderer; many found his manners and courtesy too reserved for their liking.

Sephiroth stopped by the vat, filled with icy cold water, picked it up and poured out over his head in one swift movement. His skin was pleasantly prickling as cold streamlets flowed along his back, water dripping from his face. Throwing his damp silver hair back, Sephiroth put his shirt back on and headed to the stables to check the horses. After that he would go to the library and then return to the training grounds.

Castle and its everyday monotonous matters vexed him more than usually. He had king's blood in his veins, and instead of preparing his country for war, he got stuck here, training all those _ignorami_.

As of lately, it became impossible to dismiss those thoughts and training his body to mortal fatigue seemed the only, even if cold, comfort.

* * *

The monk was preaching. Huge crowd gathered around him on the village square, women held their little children and men came with scythes or other tools straight from the nearby fields and workshops. Their eyes, of different colors and shape, yet with same strange awe flickering in their depths, were riveted on the angelic face, framed in flaming auburn hair disheveled in gentle wind. Celestial blue eyes were lifted to the welkin, and such an unearthly blissful expression of sheer peace froze on his face that it was impossible to look away.

About hardships the monk talked with humility; about earth belonging to the meek – with power and conviction, about church – with genuine anger. They listened to him, and to each one of them it seemed this monk talked about their struggles and their problems. Faces lightened up, peasants smiled when the preacher was smiling. Eyebrows knitted and fists clenched when his voice thundered with righteous ire.

The monk had their full attention and, perhaps, since the times of Demosthenes and Cicero the word has never had such a power over the folk. His every graceful gesture seemed natural, every phrase perfectly and smoothly voiced out as though he was reading a poem, and not preaching.

The monk was speaking. People were listening, and not a single soul noticed a triumphant sneer as a voice rang from the crowd, shouting something about the Second Advent of the Messiah, and the throng dropped to their knees.

Genesis looked at his flock with fondness, fingers clenching a wooden sliver in his pocket. They were ready to praise him.

Cerulean eyes flashed.

Soon they will be ready to die for him.

* * *

Holding a candle in his one hand and leaning on the handrail with another, Sephiroth made his way to his bedchamber. Wan flames quivered in draft, shadows danced on the walls and floors, illumining the narrow path under his feet and leaving the rest of surroundings shrouded in darkness. Moonlight didn't shine through narrow loopholes, but the silver-haired knight didn't need to see everything, knowing his way around by heart.

In the corridor he took a right turn, following a long carpet runner; wooden floor creaked no matter how hard he tried to walk silently. These were living quarters, equipped with the necessary amenities, and it made them the most vulnerable part of the castle. Sephiroth slipped by Marguerite's room, glancing at the door with caution, yet his stepmother seemed asleep. His rooms were next to her son's, who was at the King's court right now; most of the nobles were raised in Paris, by king's side, and he was not an exception.

Once the door closed behind him, Sephiroth put the candle on his reading table, stripped of his clothing, slipped into night garments and climbed into bed. He has not slept for many a night in this very bed, thinking, tossing and turning, haunted by the nightmares from battles and raids he took part in, remembering how they disgracefully fled Flanders and the reasons he ended up a knight without a feud. Silver canopy became a more familiar sight than soothing darkness under his eyelids.

It seemed he would not easily fall asleep today either. Sephiroth has just returned from a shrift, feeling dubiously as always, glad that he didn't have to tell much as his confession came to nothing more than a couple of meaningless phrases. This feeling persisted for as long as he could remember himself, and its roots were deep in his childhood. Once he found their family priest, intently looking at strange miniatures, hidden in his Bible. Peering through a chink, Sephiroth noticed grotesque images of naked women with horns and tales, surrounded by various demons and beasts. After that he found it hard to trust the clergy; those pictures influenced his final judgment about monks' and priests' hypocritical piety.

Cupping his hand over his eyes, the silver-haired knight blew out wan candle flames and tried to fall asleep.

…Hasty shuffling of feet tore him out of his uneasy half-slumber. Sephiroth had no idea what time it was, but obviously long before dawn. He threw a silver and blue cloak over his nightshirt on time as the door to his room burst open, and Alber, escorted by a man he didn't know, dashed inside, carrying a torch.

Folding his arms, Sephiroth silently glared at unexpected violators of his desired peace, chin haughtily lifted. Unless his squire came up with a decent excuse and fast, he would face a fit punishment. However, his thoughts changed direction when Alber breathlessly blurted out.

"Forgive me, messire, but it could not wait. There's been trouble at Estrees."

"Explain yourself," he uttered curtly, turning aside and slowly nearing the window. The moment Sephiroth saw his squire's face, he already disliked the news.

"This messenger said there's been a massacre. Peasants torched the church and slew the guards stationed there."

Religious unrest was of the worst kind indeed, and not only for the sole reason of being persistent. It meant Inquisition could appear any time, and, perhaps, only God knew, what Sephiroth would do to prevent that kind of meddling on his lands.

Obviously, he would not get any sleep tonight.

"Is that right?" He addressed the messenger, who bowed and nodded. His pleading look didn't escape Sephiroth's heed. "I need my armor and my horse now. I am taking two more knights with me. Pass my word to them, Alber. I need them up and ready in an hour in the outer courtyard by the drawbridge."

"What is going on here? Why haven't anyone told me?" Marguerite rushed into his room in her nightgown, her long uncovered hair scattered on her shoulders, face white as chalk.

Sephiroth inwardly flinched as her burning gaze fell on his face. Dealing with his stepmother was his least longed-for wish at the moment.

"We have a slight disturbance in one of our villages." He replied, calmly meeting her eyes.

His stepmother guessed his intentions at once.

"You are not going anywhere. It could be too dangerous."

Unbound silver hair curtained refined face as Sephiroth hung his head. He disliked being addressed in such a manner.

"I am afraid I am."

"You are still my son and…" Marguerite masterfully began, but Sephiroth cut her short.

"In my father's absence I am responsible for tranquility in our lands." Emerald eyes dangerously flashed in crimson light. "Excuse me, milady."

"Please!" Her desperate entreaty fell on deaf ears; Sephiroth was already leaving. Alber shriveled up in the corner, shifting his gaze from silver plated back to the pale woman, prepared to meet resistance, but Marguerite didn't even deign to grace him with a quick glance.

… In an hour six steeds left the courtyard of Chateau de Thil. Clatter of hooves upon wood tore predawn placid stillness, as three horsemen and their squires swept along the lowered drawbridge, past the fosse and nearby building of houses, disappearing in milky veil of early morning mist.

* * *

Sephiroth saw smoke when their small cavalcade passed the huge windmill, which helplessly stood in windless air as a monument, with its vanes outspread in motionlessness. Dark pillar hung in the air like a funeral veil from the windows of good Parisians' houses after heralds rode through the streets of the capital, announcing grievous news of King's decease. The weather was dry and the church must have still been smoldering.

Sephiroth touched the rein and urged his mount forward. Horsemen flew up the green hill, darted along the narrow, overgrown with succulent grass, pathway and stormed into the village without halting by the low wicker fence. Houses and household structures huddled behind it in a tight disorderly crowd. The silver-haired knight caught sight of better defended courtyards that belonged to wealthier peasants but those were very few in numbers. Estrees belonged to the landlord Sephiroth did not know, despite him being his stepfather's vassal.

Here and there people stopped working, looking up at the passing horsemen with a mixture of fear and servility on their weary faces. Glancing at those craftsmen and peasants, at women, washing clothes and milking cows, Sephiroth could not imagine how they could have burnt the church. Something wasn't right. He frowned, exchanging glances with his squire.

Cavalcade turned to the right, passing the smithy, and Sephiroth got a full view of the burnt building and another small detachment, gathered by the smoking ruin. It was a grim sight, beams and ceiling black, thatched roof completely gone, and insides turned into useless rubble. The silver-haired knight dismounted and slowly neared the leader of the group. Seeing him coming, the knight in turn alighted, took his helmet off and bowed. Even though Sephiroth did not recognize him, the leader was obviously well aware of who he was.

"Seigneur Sephiroth, we arrived as soon as baron de Crecy received the news."

Emerald eyes intently watched the man in his mid-forties with a beard and mustache, as he nervously shifted from one foot to another.

"Who would you be? And what happened?"

"Captain of the castle guard, Thomas by the name." He straightened, unsure how to continue. "Let's take a walk, messire."

Sephiroth nodded, ordered his knights to dismount, and followed the captain towards the ruin.

"We are not sure ourselves… yet. It seems, the villagers torched the church and killed the priest. They kept talking about the Second Advent and seeing the Messiah. At first I didn't believe them, but they, "he crossed himself," all insisted on it. We caught a man, who, some claim, was somehow tied to the unrest, but his story just doesn't add up."

Sephiroth stretched out his gloved hand, ran his fingers along the charred wooden log. Ash crumbled underneath his palm.

Second Advent? That would be the last straw. As though they haven't been through it on numerous occasions; false prophets, turning into burnt heretics, false prophesies about the Apocalypse, turning into an outrageous joke.

Sephiroth didn't care as long as it did not occur on his lands.

"I'll talk to him, and we'll see what he has to say."

"Right away, messire," Thomas' face brightened up. Perhaps, he wouldn't want this incident to mar his reputation and was only glad Sephiroth took full responsibility for the outcome. "We were just beginning to question him… more thoroughly. If you go this way..."

Sephiroth shook his silver head, already disliking captain's words.

* * *

The air nearly groaned as a living being, when a lash cleaved it, hissing, fizzing. Sizzling liquid flames erupted underneath Genesis' skin, droplets of blood spilling like flashing sparks as the lash whipped his back, brushing against old scars. He moaned, restraining a scream, licking dry, covered in dust, lips. Scarlet streamlet tickled his neck, dripping onto the ground. They were shedding _his_ blood. Cerulean eyes helplessly flashed, fists clenched, but the redhead could only see ground and little carmine droplets as they slowly fell. Genesis sharply twitched with his whole body, but to no avail. He was trapped, fettered into stocks, and held up to derision.

He made a single silly mistake of staying at the village to see the carnage with his own eyes, and now he had to pay for it.

The lash hissed again, mercilessly ripping his skin, and this time he screamed. Thin rivulet tickled his cheek and lips. He hung his head, auburn hair falling over his face, goldish locks stuck to damp forehead. Pants escaped his lips, but he didn't say a single word. They would not get any confession from him.

Genesis closed his eyes, imagining a wooden sliver in his pocket. His tormentor lashed him again and again, and he could only helplessly groan and scream, giving them the satisfaction of watching his humiliation. Laughter touched his ears; those insolent bastards were mocking _him_.

The redhead heard his tormentor say something again, writhed, anticipating more pain, but this time it never came. He heard a voice instead of a fizz, a cold curt replica.

"Release him."

Genesis couldn't lift up his head, remaining on his knees and trapped between two wooden stocks, painfully locked around his neck and wrists. But the redhead was certain that this stranger was used to giving orders; his tone betrayed him. For unknown reasons this voice seemed vaguely familiar. Genesis tried to raise his head a bit more to catch a glimpse of stranger's face, but saw a flash of bedazzling silver only before his head fell again, his view narrowed to a pair of steel leg shields.

"But, messire, he was causing…"

His tormentor faltered, although the knight remained silent; it was now obvious he was a noble. Genesis felt cool fingers slide underneath his chin, lifting it, and that same deep thoughtful voice followed knight's gesture.

"Devil's spawn." Someone hastily began undoing the wooden trap, but Genesis' mind was set on the stranger now, and he nearly fell, as the stocks came apart, almost missing stranger's next words. "Or so I've heard."

His hand moved away, depriving of last, even if weak, support, and the redhead collapsed at stranger's feet.

"Give him back his clothes and bring inside."

Genesis lifted his head in time to see the silver-plated back moving away. There could be only one man with such strange ashen color of waist-length hair. A night at castle Thil, deathbed confession, which went the other way around and a young man with angelic features flashed before his eyes in an instant. The redhead needed to see his face.

"Get up and move," someone rudely tossed him his cotardie and hitched up to his feet. Genesis wrenched out of his grip, put his clothes back on, despite the pain, which flared when cloth touched his wounds. Before disappearing in the house, he flashed a sneer at his tormentors. He was free, and that meant a lot of unfortunate things that could accidentally happen.

The silver-haired knight was sitting in a simple wooden armchair, his pose thoughtful yet regal, forehead resting on his palm and silver shrouding his face. An unsheathed bastard sword lay by his side. Staggering, Genesis walked into a small room, eyes riveted on his unintentional savior. He didn't seem to pay the redhead any heed, until suddenly his deep voice rang in silence.

"What is your name?"

The redhead found a low stool and gingerly, trying not to inflict himself any more pain, took a seat on its edge.

"Genesis."

The knight raised his head, and he finally saw pale refined face, embellished with bright emerald eyes and framed with two shorter silver locks, concluding the image Genesis remembered. It was that young man indeed. The redhead hemmed, wondering if the knight was able to recall him, which was undesirable to say the least. It would give them all the reasons to tie him to the accident with the burnt church.

"How are you involved in all of this?"

Piercing emerald eyes were upon him, making him slightly nervous and uncomfortable. Genesis pulled on a humble mask, deciding it was the best for now.

"I am not. Your men made a mistake."

The knight shook his silver head and folded his arms.

"I remember you, only then you were dressed as a priest. Care to explain yourself?"

Shadow of vexation flickered on Genesis' face. It would not be that easy to fool this knight; only at that moment he didn't know exactly how hard it would turn out.

"Do I look like a priest?" His replica rang with enough sarcasm to cause a deep crease mar the smoothness of knight's flawless features. To confirm his words, the redhead lazily ran his hand through rich auburn hair without a hint of a bald spot in them; his wig and a cassock were left in a barn.

The knight softly chuckled.

"You certainly don't. But it is easy to change your appearance."

Again Genesis was compelled to admit this knight would not be easy to deal with. He met emerald eyes with defiance.

"Is this the only reason you grace me with your presence? To find out, whether I am a priest?"

The silver-haired stranger shrugged with a hint of a smile on thin lips.

"That would explain a lot. But mostly, I have to admit, you amuse me, and it is a rare thing."

"I am not here to amuse you." Genesis angrily snapped, arrogantly tossing his head. His education would not be mocked by an ignorant vain noble.

Anger flashed in deep emerald eyes, making them even brighter. It was clear he wasn't used to being spoken to in an unduly familiar manner, yet managed to restrain himself. Sneering, Genesis wondered how far he could push this haughty knight before his cold mask would shatter. He was not about to lose to anyone.

"Here you are at my mercy." The silver-haired knight spoke calmly. "This is my land and my laws."

"Or king's." The redhead suggested with a hint of mock, amusing himself with the knight's reaction. Pride was such a nuisance; Genesis was well situated to appreciate its aftereffects. It was a vexation at first, when he had to become a mendicant monk and live on alms.

"I could order you to be executed right now."

Again the redhead only shook his head, leaning forward with a triumphant smile on his face.

"Clergy is not subjected to lay court."

The next moment he realized he made a foolish mistake, as a faint, yet clearly content smirk touched the edges of thin lips.

"So you are indeed a priest. I was correct."

Azure eyes lit up with anger.

"I am a monk." Genesis growled out. He had to drop the pretence.

"So I thought, even without a tonsure."

The redhead drew in a deep breath to calm himself. This knight proved to be way too intelligent to play such a blunt game with. He had to be more careful and more delicate.

"So what fate awaits me now?" His question rang with enough of feigned submissiveness to satisfy the silver-haired knight.

"We will return to Chateau de Thil. There I shall decide your lot."

Genesis involuntarily clenched his fists. None would decide his fate and stand in his way.

"As you wish, messire."

It didn't seem to convince the knight completely, yet his stare softened to somewhat approving, thoughtful even.

"Take him away." He addressed someone outside.

Genesis obeyed. His timed has not yet come.

* * *

Sephiroth thoughtfully watched Genesis, as he disappeared with one of Thomas' men. He didn't know what to think about this encounter. From the night of his fever only vague spots of memories remained, but those fathomless cerulean eyes he remembered clearly, as though he saw Genesis a day ago.

Yet the silver-haired knight decided to leave all the troubles and questions for the next day. It was time to speak to some peasants and get back home; this time he will go without the Inquisition and their omnipresent judges.

Reposing himself on the bed, Sephiroth dismissed all outside thoughts and was about to get some sleep when Alber walked into the hut.

"What now?" He nearly groaned, looking at his squire's pale face. The youth seemed to be the source of constant bad news.

"You need to see this, messire."

Sheathing his bastard sword, Sephiroth swiftly left the room. It seemed sleep was too much of a luxury for him.

Outside Thomas' men and a couple of peasants were bustling near the barn, incoherent shouts reaching his ears. They let him pass.

Inside Sephiroth was met by a grim sight. The man, who was lashing Genesis before, the one he ordered to take the redhead away, lay dead on the hay. His shirt was soaked with blood from a gaping dagger wound in the chest. The silver-haired knight squatted, taking a closer look and noticing bite marks on the neck, swollen lips as though the man was kissing somebody before he died.

The explanation to all of it was borne out by the bulge in man's pants. So Genesis lured him into the barn on such improper pretext, using an unorthodox way to break free and flee. The silver-haired knight shook his head with disapproval. Discipline had to be crucial to soldiers, and these have just shown they lacked any.

"Alber, go and inform Sir Thomas."

Sephiroth rose, dismissing his squire, and, glancing at the dead man for the last time, headed outside. He knew it before even getting to the stables, but had to make sure anyway. One horse was missing.

So Genesis turned out to be a more guileful and devious creature than he had first suspected; somehow Sephiroth didn't feel disappointed. On the contrary, it stirred a strange excitement, the one he had never felt before. Right now he was not chasing a helpless wounded wild boar. Genesis proved to be an equal.

He had to deal with the situation before the Inquisition arrived. His return to the castle will have to be delayed.

Sephiroth picked up a wooden chip, squatted near the fence and sketched a map on the ground by heart, signing perfectly drawn rectangles.

Crecy. Wadicourt. Fontaine. Where would Genesis go? What would he do?

Emerald eyes narrowed, shifting from one sketched village to another.

The game began.


	5. Chapter IV: Hunters and preys

_Summary_: Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346. The story is, of course, fictional, but the setting will be kept close to reality.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N: _More of Seph's and Gen's… hm, interactions :)

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc:**_

_Abyssus abyssum invocat (lat.)_ - One misstep leads to another. (Hell follows Hell, literal translation).

_Nicolaas Zannekin_ - a Flemish peasant leader, best known for his role in the Peasant revolt in Flanders 1323-1328.

_Hannibal_ – great Carthaginian military leader; led the Second Punic War (III c. BC) against Rome, but never got to take the city itself.

_C__oup de grace (fr.) – _blow of mercy.

* * *

_**Chapter IV**__**.**_

_**Hunter**__**s and preys.**_

"_All the world's a stage,_

_And all the men and women merely players;_

_They have their exits and their entrances;_

_And one man in his time plays many parts…" (Shakespeare, 'As You Like It')._

Genesis dismounted, tied his horse to a tree trunk and slowly undressed; undershirt came off with difficulty, causing more pain, as though the lashing itself hasn't been enough. Cloth had time to adhere to his injured back. Clutching his slashed shoulder, the redhead plodded to a small clear rivulet and nearly fell when the wet ground moved a little. Cupping his hands and plunging them into crystal water, he gently washed his face and back, faintly hissing every time his long fingers brushed against the fresh wounds.

The forest behind him was full of whispers and rustles; from time to time the redhead turned around, alarm evident on his face, to be certain none was chasing him.

Wounds hurt, hindering every movement, but those scars faded into nothing, compared to those, inflicted to his pride. The monastery he was _cleansed_ at burnt. 'What lot should those knights share?' He wondered, rinsing the undershirt, watching little crimson pools as they disappeared in the slow stream, which carried them to the Mave river.

Night fell as a bird of prey, silently spreading its dark velvety wings over the forest and a lone redhead standing in the knee-high streamlet. First stars bestrewed the dark canopy, as tears, shed in haste by Nyx, the Greek goddess of night. Genesis loved stars; they reminded him of those short days when he lived in Toulouse with his mother, and she would take him to the nearby field with a Bible to explain the grandeur of God's design. Looking at them now he was more willing to believe in Greek Gods; they were cruel and primal in some ways, but at least they never tried to hide behind a lovable mask.

Genesis was the first to know that masks usually shrouded nothingness.

Wringing his shirt for the last time, Genesis slipped it on, letting it loosely fall over his wounded back. Half-dressed, the redhead picked up the rest of his clothes, stuffed into bottomless knapsack and returned to the horse. It sniffed, huge brown eyes blinking. Genesis untied it and led back to the road he turned from earlier; just before he came to the twisting dusty serpentine, the redhead tied his mount again and lowered himself to the ground. The auburn head rested against the rough trunk, but vigilant azure eyes remained opened.

If the knight expected him to go straight to one of the villages, he would be disappointed. '_Abyssus abyssum invocat_', Genesis thought, watching the road ahead, without even noticing he whispered those words. He had to wait just a little longer, and then the part he has already played would be given to a new actor, the one he had subconsciously wanted to see in his drama since their second encounter.

The haughty knight with silver waist-length hair.

* * *

Sephiroth absently tapped his fingers on the table, furtively watching Thomas, as the said man was slowly pacing along the wall of a hut. They have just finished questioning the peasants. During the conversation the silver-haired knight sat in silence, giving all freedom to conduct the interrogation on his own to the middle-aged captain. He knew commoners feared him, and was never eloquent enough to ease the tension between them or get on their right side.

The picture turned out even grimmer than the one he first saw near the burnt church. During the questioning the silver-haired knight noticed strange erratic behavior of the villagers; they gave irrelevant answers, stammered, some even looked like they've just awoken from a long and deep slumber. They mumbled something about the Messiah, and then incoherently, hastily spoke about demons, showing confusion and fright. Genesis – now Sephiroth had no doubt he was to blame the strange redheaded monk, who didn't look like a monk, but rather like a lecherous squire, for the unrest – made the best of his oratory skills and set the crowd thinking in the direction he desired. But once he fled, the overwhelming fascination with the angelic creature began fading and, coming to their senses, people felt misled to say the least.

"So who is he, a new Messiah or a devil's spawn?" Sephiroth thoughtfully mused, addressing no one in particular. Emerald eyes turned distant and dim, as he was trying to remember the second encounter with the monk in detail.

Thomas stopped in his tracks.

"I'd say, he's one hell of a demon, messire. You saw what he did to Rober. Poor fellow never stood a chance against him. It is easy to fall victim to beguiling manners, God forbid, of such a man." Emerald eyes turned to the captain, suddenly icy.

"That's why you cultivate discipline in your men, so that something like this never happens."

Thomas sighed, leerily glancing at the door over his shoulder.

"I admit it was my fault, messire, but, please, let the rumor of this unfortunate accident never leave this room. If the Inquisition finds out any of baron's guards were involved with a man, we all can share a dismal lot."

Sephiroth hemmed, idly twiddling long silver locks.

"Is it that… uncommon to get involved with a man?"

The captain of guard lowered his voice to a barely distinguished whisper.

"Of course not, and that is the reason why I want everything we've just said to stay between us."

"I don't want to see Inquisitors getting involved in this anyhow. The word about this incident will never leave this room."

"Thank you, messire."

The relief on man's face was too obvious to miss. Sephiroth unnoticeably stretched, feeling tired after previous sleepless night. It was time to give last orders and wrap it up until dawn.

"I want three messengers sent to the nearby villages of Crecy, Wadicourt and Fontaine. They are to track down Genesis, yet I don't want them to act, should they find him."

Thomas bowed.

"I'll take care of it. Would you like to continue with the investigation?" The silver-haired knight curtly nodded. "But isn't it easier to burn the whole village and forget about everything?"

Sephiroth shuddered at the blunt suggestion, brusquely raising his head. Emerald eyes sparked, meeting those of a middle-aged man.

"I shall not resort to such drastic means unless absolutely necessary. Punishing the peasants will not rid us of the main source of the unrest."

"But it'll certainly teach others a lesson."

Sephiroth rose, now towering above the captain as a tall silver pillar, thin lips pursing into a straight line, his deep voice hiding any flicker of previous weakness.

"It is not negotiable."

Thomas involuntarily took a step back, casting his eyes down.

"Of course, messire."

Taking his final leave, the captain walked out of the hut Sephiroth was staying at. The silver-haired knight closed the door, first making sure that the sentries were posted, and returned to the bed, taking a seat on its edge. It was getting dark outside, windows bemisted with murrey tinged haze.

Sephiroth slowly slipped out of his armor, feeling relieved once the steel plates came off. He dismissed his squire for the night; after all, Alber was young and in his age blood runs hot in the veins, whilst his was turning colder and colder with each passing year.

Reposing himself on the rough bed, the knight closed his eyes. When he was thirteen, his stepfather and Philippe dealt with Nicolaas Zannekin's rebellion in his ancestral lands of Flanders. There he first saw how a burning village looked like. Peasants, hunted down by mounted knights, crying children, dead women, pillaged homes – and all of it crowned with raging scarlet flames.

There he saw his stepfather raping a young peasant girl, who was screaming and begging him to let go.

There he saw many things he would rather not see.

* * *

A body in colors of baron de Crecy lay in the mud where pigs fed. Lifting the flap of his long cassock, Genesis circled it, from time to time touching the shapeless mass with the tip of his boot. It didn't move. He killed the messenger, and made sure he was as dead as a log.

A dark flash in the corner of his eyes indicated the crowd was gathering outside the feeding rack by the low wettled fence. Genesis ably hid a content smirk, and smoothed his wig with a disgusting bald spot on the crown of the head. What a stupid custom it was, to shave a tonsure; when he was little and has just been forced to enter the Dominican Order, monks made him cut off a tonsure. Later he valued his precious rich auburn hair way too much to waste it for idiocy and rituals.

So instead of coming bodily, the knight sent a messenger first; more the pity for the unlucky person. The world disliked failures and favored bold and strong.

"Hear me, brothers and sisters" Genesis addressed the throng, feeling dozens of eyes riveting on him the moment he spoke. "Who committed this horrible crime? I promise forgiveness for the honest answer. 'You shall not murder', the God told Moses, yet with Adam's and Eve's fall we are all pitiful sinners, and our bodies often win over the calls of our souls."

The redhead endearingly smiled towards the crowd. He knew none would come forward, because he killed the messenger. Murmurs arose; people started at each other, and he could almost see them questioning themselves, what if his or her neighbor or son was a murderer.

"But it was a messenger, father." A peasant with a pitchfork bashfully spoke. "If baron finds out, he'll punish us."

"And he will find out," the redhead assured him with that same smile, nearing his flock. Too bad he lacked time and, unable to repeat that elegant stunt with the church, will have to act bluntly and blindly. "But I will pray to God so that he'd give me advice how to help you, child."

Genesis looked up at the sun. He had time, even if little.

… Horsemen came in sight late in the day, when shadows on the road lengthened and the sun painted the sky in purple colors. Genesis started thinking there could be a flaw in his thoughts, but then one of the fidgety peasant lads noticed a barely visible cloud of dust, which soon turned into silhouettes of two riders.

Genesis narrowed his lids to take a better look, and could have sworn he saw a bright flash of silver, although from such a distance it was impossible to discern anything.

"They are coming. What should we do?"

The redhead glared at the speaking man; he could sense the latter's fear, knowing that no matter how many speeches he gave, it would not go away.

"We pray," Genesis raised his voice, "so that God hears our passionate plea and lets us gain what we need without bloodshed."

With a devout face the redhead lowered his eyes and mumbled a quick prayer. Peasants with pitchforks, homely bows and swords repeated his gestures. Right now Genesis was their only forlorn hope; ironically enough he was their doom as well.

Unsuspecting horsemen neared the village, passing by the first line of wicker fence, and then Genesis gestured for the villagers to abandon shelter. A crowd of dismal people poured out into the streets, surrounding the riders, as a flood of turbid river, intercepting the retreat. A knight and his squire immediately drew their weapons, and blood would have been spilled if it wasn't for the redhead; Genesis pushed his way through a crowd, noticing the distinct glimmer of long silver hair even before he could clearly see its holder from behind peasant's backs.

So he was right; the arrogant knight had swallowed a gudgeon.

"Welcome, _messire_," the redhead drawled with a malevolent sneer, leisurely waving his hand at the throng. The knight turned his horse to the sound of his voice; even if there was a sign of perplexity on refined marble face, Genesis never had the time to see it. Bastard sword rose, ready to strike, the throng drew forward, but Genesis calmly raised his hand. "Admit, you are surprised to see me."

Emerald eyes riveted on him, flames rising and falling in their blazing depths, so radiant in creeping dusk simple gems would have never mirrored their splendor.

"Genesis. What do you want?" He was demanding, by the vassal right or sheer habit to enjoin, Genesis couldn't tell.

"Lay down your arms and then we'll talk."

Silence was his answer. Dozens of eyes were fixed on those two; it was their fates in the hands of a knight and a monk.

He sat, a chiseled statue in the saddle; faint wind played with flamboyant silver locks, and that was the only sign of movement betraying the knight was alive. One could only admire his self-possession; and certainly he wasn't the first one to lose this silent duel.

"Shall we obey, messire?" Everyone heard squire's whisper so thick the poised silence was.

"Now, there was an excellent suggestion," the redhead interjected before the knight had time to answer. He slowly moved along the dark line of peasants, his back rashly turned to the knight, feeling emerald eyes following his every step. "Thou canst make a better choice."

The tension on the street became nearly tangible; Genesis couldn't help but feel he was beginning to lose patience, and, perhaps, that was precisely what the silver-haired knight wanted. But before hell broke loose Genesis finally heard a faint clang of metal, indicating he was dismounting.

With a satisfied smile the redhead turned to accept the bastard sword and a misericorde he used to deliver _coup de grace_ with. The silver-haired knight handed him those blades with the same deadpan expression on sculptured alabaster face; even though Genesis wanted to see signs of wounded pride or docility that would have at least given a little augury of his future desire to cooperate, for now the redhead had to accept he saw none. The squire was disarmed equally fast and taken away in the opposite direction, while Genesis tied the knight's hands and led into the hut a wealthier peasant family had to vacate for the time being. He was silent, on the way through the crowd and ascending the stairs, never deigning to dart even a single glance back at his captor; Genesis walked behind, opening the door, since the knight wasn't able to do it with hands tied behind.

"Be my guest."

The knight glided inside and took a seat with the same deadly calmness he displayed during capture. Did he swallow his anger? Could it be that this arrogant knight was actually able to admit his mistakes?

Genesis found himself wondering if he was even able to read the man. Leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, he intently looked at the captive, enjoying the moment of his own humiliation reversed.

"I guess I get to ask your name as an equal now."

The silver-haired knight calmly shrugged, ignoring his remark of equality.

"Sephiroth."

Genesis' eyes narrowed to slits.

"Just like that? No pompous titles of nobility?" He nodded; silver locks touched his chest, as he gracefully inclined his head, lustrous emerald eyes never leaving his. "Damn it, I find myself quite disappointed."

Thin lips folded into a scoff, sharp, devoid of warmth, not that he was anticipating any after what he'd done.

"I am not here to please you."

How could Genesis forget his own words, spoken barely a day ago? '_All who draw the sword will die by the sword'_, Matthew, chapter twenty six. He remembered it so clearly, as though he was standing by the Bible, reading the lines at this very moment. Genesis' fingers involuntarily clutched the handle of his dagger. It still felt like the silver-haired knight with angelic face looked down at him, despite being at disadvantage, and he hated this feeling, every single moment of it.

"So smug…" He pushed the wall aside, circling the chair the knight sat on, each step and gesture as flowing mercurial waters of a mountain river, smoothness and sharpness balanced out, betraying his equivocal mood. "Do you truly believe your birth superiority or lineage is of any importance now? You don't have anyone obeying your whims, nor will you, if you don't do what I say."

Genesis put his palms on the wooden back, seeing a glistening waterfall of silver in the faint rays of setting sun. The hut smelled of unpleasant mixture of odors from the street, yet his hair's scent was something indistinguishably different, fresh, as a current of crisp air.

"You want ransom. I guess I couldn't say I am surprised, although I expected more from you."

Genesis' fingers clenched the wooden back with more force, as he caught a contemptuous note in deep voice.

"Wrong guess." It rang sharper than the redhead intended, again betraying him shamelessly, as a coquette. He already seemed unable to keep the same imperturbable calm, matching that of the silver haired knight's. "Why would I need your money if soon a price would be set for my precious head? I want you to get me a plenary indulgence, which would atone for the burnt church."

"I am a knight, not a pardoner or a priest." Another disdainful note surfaced in velvety voice, a more distinct now.

"That I can see." The conversation was turning deliciously amusing. "But surely you must know _somebody_, who'd be willing to do it in exchange for your life."

"You will not kill me."

"Why?"

"I am a valuable prize." The deep voice wavered just a bit, not enough for Genesis to take it as a doubt. He laughed, shifting so that he would face the knight again.

"Then you don't know me." Words flowed as viscous oversweetened honey, followed by a devilish glint in cerulean eyes.

"And is there something worth… knowing?" Sephiroth asked with an inaudible sigh and a weary hang of his silver head to a side.

For some reasons it didn't sting, amused mostly, more so since Genesis was able to get a genuine reaction from the icy monolith.

"I never thought you'd ask." He leaned forward so that their lips almost touched, and availing himself of the knight's perturbation, continued. "Sometimes all you see is a mask, a carefully chosen, clever disguise, never knowing what is there, underneath. Sometimes you play your part, and despite all the might or influence, find yourself unable to change the circumstances. Like this Hannibal never got to take Rome." Genesis succumbed to a sudden desire and ran his finger along the sculptured jaw line. Sephiroth jerked, provoking another laugh from the redhead, who then moved away.

"So what will your answer be?"

"I'll have to think."

"Think, but I don't have an eternity at my disposal."

The knight looked away for the first time during their conversation. "You will have my decision by dawn." With that Sephiroth seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation and lapsed into silence.

Genesis neared the window, peering into the darkness where torches flashed from time to time, giving away someone's movements. The redhead was certain the knight would write a letter tomorrow morning, whereupon he'd send captured squire to castle Thil. Of course, he'll have to have a back up plan of escape in case things go out of control, and for some reasons his family would prefer the knight dead. The fate of the villagers was of no interest to him.

Genesis turned, looking at the white looming blot of Sephiroth's face. He was, or seemed, asleep, and Genesis again felt slight envy. The knight could afford it, calmness and peace, whilst he'd have to keep vigil till morning, unless he wanted to fail again. The redhead took a seat at the table, intending to spend the night awake, but without him even noticing silence and fatigue finally overpowered him, black waves rolled in and he carelessly forgot about his intentions.

* * *

Genesis was running. One moment he was sitting, talking to the silver-haired knight, who at last agreed to comply with his requests, and jumping out of the window the next, glad he got rid of his cassock earlier and wincing from the pain abrupt movements still woke. In a blink everything crumbled, as an unfinished Leaning Tower of Pisa. **

How, in God's name, did he manage to overlook a large detachment of knights, as it flooded the village? Was the silver-haired tempter and his beguiling graceful manners to blame for the mistake or did it happen when he so foolishly fell asleep?

It no longer mattered. He mounted the horse and dashed out of the barn, as though Lucifer himself was on his heels, which would not be an overstatement if he got caught again. Wind blew in his face, disheveling his auburn hair; dirt and dust flew asunder from underneath the hooves. As a lightning he swept by the houses without halting when the knights tried to stop him, digging his heels into steed's sides and drawing reins so that it would jump over the fence.

Pursuers were not far behind. They have already cut off his path to retreat, and drove him into the nearby forest. Twigs lashed his cheeks, but Genesis stubbornly bent over, flattening himself against the horse's neck. The steed flew up hill and down dale; all the redhead could do was desperately clutch the bit and, holding his breath, hope not to ride his horse to death before he'd throw them off.

Suddenly the steed pranced and with a deafening agonizing neigh began to tumble to the left. A crossbow bolt jutted out of its neck. Genesis barely had time to free his foot from the stirrup before he fell with it. The ground spurted towards, blow painfully echoed through his body and Genesis blacked out but, coming to his senses, understood he was no longer alone.

Breathing heavily, the redhead struggled to his feet to be met by piercing gaze and a bare bastard sword, pointed to him. Hunters and preys changed again. Feeling slightly woozy from the fall, Genesis dropped his head, avoiding his captive's eyes. What will he do now?

"Quit playing games with me, Genesis. We are going to Château de Thil."

He was watching his boots and a small streamlet of blood, which flowed from underneath the steed's corpse. Admit he was defeated? Never.

"I don't have a choice, do I? Circumstances turned away from me."

With a chuckle the silver-haired knight slipped behind Genesis in one graceful movement, leaned over, so that his lips nearly brushed the latter's ear and soft silver locks tickled his skin, whispering with a touch of unhidden mockery.

"Hannibal never got to take Rome, but Caesar did."

The arrogant redhead flinched, unable or unwilling to hide neither hellish flames erupting in cerulean eyes, nor the twitch on lush lips, understanding precisely what Sephiroth implied by those words.

* * *

Sephiroth rarely slept peacefully even if gifted with much desired slumber. This time he was walking in knee-high flames on a desolated road. Feet hurt and bled, every movement implied torture. Ashen grass grew on both sides of the serpentine pathway, crumbling in his fingers if he touched it.

The knight opened his eyes, and faintly moaned. Nothing would ever take them away, the nightmares, the seals and imprints in his mind. His head hurt and mouth felt dry. They came back after he recalled that burnt village, each time different, but equally painful. They've been haunting him for nearly twenty years now, and he lost any hope they'd ever disappear.

Raising himself on the elbow, he shifted his gaze to the corner where he left Genesis. The redhead was silent, and he couldn't see him in the darkness.

Sephiroth wiped cold sweat from his face and neck with the back of his palm. Wrapping himself tighter into the flaxen shirt, he rose as quietly as he could.

"Nightmares?" Melodic voice rang from the darkness where Genesis sat. "I guess we have a lot in common."

He didn't answer, slipping through the door and into the cool soothing night. He needed a short walk. After exchanging greetings with the sentries Sephiroth strode along the narrow street, stumbling over a stone near the barn. He didn't care where his feet would carry him.

The knight's thoughts were on Genesis. He kept questioning his own actions during the last day, since he was captured by the redheaded monk. Where did he make a mistake, underestimating his rival? It wasn't supposed to even come close to capture, and yet it did.

His steps measured and slow, Sephiroth approached the fence and turned around. He was already feeling a little better; perhaps, now he'd have a better chance of getting some rest without having to think about Genesis and how close to losing he was this time. He didn't like to lose, especially to a non equal. It reminded him of the rebellion in Flanders, when a couple of craftsman leaders managed to drive them out. He used to look down at them, at cloth-makers and spinners who depended on English wool, yet they proved him wrong, defeating his stepfather twice. Could Genesis be of the same kind?

"How was your walk, messire?" Alber's voice interrupted his flow of thoughts. Sephiroth looked at the sentry, only now recognizing his squire. The youth felt their capture keenly, since it was his first failure. Perhaps, he thought it was his fault, as youngsters often do. Sephiroth managed an encouraging smile.

"Don't fall asleep."

Alber grinned back, his smile barely visible in faint moonlight. Sephiroth lingered on the threshold, looking back at the peaceful village, whose fate was in his hands now, and opened the door. It was a delusion, so fragile and evanescent, as his victories today were. Tomorrow it could burn.

Something moved in the darkness, too fast even for him to discern, and the moment Sephiroth stepped inside he found himself pressed between the wall and a warm lissome body, lips, hot and demanding, capturing his. Taken aback, he succumbed to a fervent ravishing sensation Genesis' kiss stirred, parting them and letting the redhead delve it with his tongue.

Genesis' free arm wrapped around his waist, bringing them even tighter. Emerald eyes widened.

"It's a trick I learned in Palestine." The redhead said, detaching, yet not completely, gently nipping at his bottom lip. "You know, when your survival depends on it, you learn fast." Hot whisper flowed into his ears like honey, sending shivers down his spine. Normally it would have taken a lot more to breach his cold weir.

Sephiroth swiftly reached behind Genesis' back before he could react, knocking a small dagger out of his other hand, which then landed on the floor with a clang.

"It won't work with me, Genesis." The silver-haired knight drew in a deep breath, getting back his self-mastery, and pushed the redhead away. Somehow he could still sense his lips, even now when he stood at arm's length, strange yet intoxicating taste lingering on his tongue.

"You came back too soon," Genesis snapped malignantly, holding out his hands to be tied again.

Sephiroth watched him with just a hint of disappointment he didn't know the source of.

* * *

A/N: ** The Tower of Pisa was completed in 1360, around 14 years later.


	6. Chapter V: Shackles and courtesy

_Summary:_ Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346. The story is, of course, fictional, but the setting will be kept close to reality.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N: _Darn, this came out fast, in a burst of inspiration, I almost didn't believe myself. It's been a while since I was inspired like this. Blame Sphinx and CNome! :)

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc:**_

_Livre_ – an old French coin. I know little about numismatics, so I have no idea how to compare it to modern money. But to make an example, a count could have had an annual income of 2400 livres and a peasant family – an annual income of 5 livres. Pretty diverse.

_Bataille_ – a tactical unit in France during the HYW. To make it brief and not bore you with much detail, detachments arrived as batailles to the assembly place; in a bataille fighters grouped around knights, known as bannerets (or less noble bacheliers), and usually were their vassals. This formation might not correspond to the actual division into detachments on the battlefield before the battle.

* * *

_**Chapter V.**_

_**Shackles and courtesy.**_

'_To accept a favor is to sell freedom.' (Publilius Syrus)._

"I remember a minstrel, who used to sing a beautiful song of love, heroes and treason. Once I tried calling it to mind for my… acquaintance," Alber slightly blushed, shifting in his saddle to look away from the silver-haired knight. "Canst thou remember his name, messire?"

"Whose name?" Sephiroth answered a bit absent-mindedly. "Ah, you imply the minstrel's name. No, I forgot it."

Alber cleared his throat, and thereupon began singing, bashfully at first, yet his voice was getting louder and more melodic with each stanza.

'_Mother, my lovely mother, why do you speak of men?_

_Men mean nothing to me; I'll never care about them._

_I want to keep my beauty till the day of my death._

_I see no use for their love, no need for the pain they always bring…' ** _Sephiroth listened spellbound with an involuntary smile roaming on thin lips.

Horses walked slowly along the edge of the water, stepping on dirt. The small detachment lengthened out in a long narrow chain, horsemen broke up into smaller groups of two or three, chattering sprightly. The silver-haired knight with his squire led the cavalcade; behind, at a distance of about two lengths, followed another page, holding a horse by the bridle. A redhead, dressed in a well-worn green cotardie, idly sat in the saddle. The captive's hands were tied.

The wind was frivolously fluttering yellow and blue cloaks, gently tousling leader's long silver hair, disappearing in the crystal-blue heights, an eternal restless wanderer. The village of Crecy loomed behind, and jolly Zephyrus swung three bodies, which hung from a tree.

Sephiroth couldn't do more for the peasants. To keep his flawless reputation and authority the knight had to punish them for breaking the law. Instead of burning the whole settlement he confined himself to hanging three random villagers, hoping that without Genesis the incident will not relapse.

Sephiroth shuddered, unpleasantly cold shivers creeping up his spine, cold, despite the heat and layers of armor he was wearing. Somewhere far away, as it seemed, Alber was still singing, but he wasn't listening any longer. He had to thank his self-restraint for not displaying fright in front of the redhead there, in the hut, when, looking straight into cerulean depths, Sephiroth finally realized he saw his demise.

Yet the knight did not understand himself. Genesis had no piety or fear of his noble title, of the laws; for the redhead it was still a game of life and death. Sephiroth should have punished Genesis for insolence, and yet here they were, returning to castle Thil, and he didn't make up his mind as before.

"… I want to become like Sifried one day, messire, a hero, whose glory would be as widespread wings of a falcon." Sephiroth raised his head, only now realizing that Alber has finished his song and was talking to him.

"And marry a fair maiden by the name of Krimhild?" Genesis' voice, tainted with sarcasm, echoed from behind. "The one, of whom a poet may say'…her beauty was hard to believe, her virtues hard to achieve…'?"

Alber's eyes blazed up with pride.

"I certainly wish so."

"They are just tales, you know, of the most beguiling kind."

"For you they might be tales," squire's voice rang with righteous indignation, resonant, chaste, and proud, as a song he was just singing. "But for me honor and life of my master is more valuable than my own. One day I will stand by his side in battle and together we will perform feats of valor, worthy of being praised and remembered in centuries to come." His face brightened up. "Messire believes in it, too."

Sephiroth averted his face, feeling unknown dull ache stirring in his heart. He didn't want to lie; Alber will grow up and sooner than he might wish. But Genesis didn't seem satisfied, and his melodic voice continued with shrewd cruelty.

"Hm, tell him, Sephiroth, what you believe in. I am sure he will be _delighted_ to hear it."

Anger surged up inside when he heard those words; it took all restraint not to turn around and slap the redhead across his smug face. Instead the silver-haired knight touched the rein, urging the mount to move faster, drawing away from the rest of the cavalcade.

After all, he didn't have to grace any of them with an answer.

… Black silhouettes of towers came in sight late in the afternoon. Blind eyes of loopholes vacantly stared into the light golden haze of approaching warm spring evening. Surrounded by a deep moat and twofold row of parapeted walls, this old veteran of battles haughtily towered above the verdant waves of hills. It seemed the castle, which sheltered them for the last six years, was impregnable. Sephiroth watched it with pride of a commander who has seen many battles and encounters with insurgents.

Meanwhile the cavalcade rode along the lowered drawbridge into the first, larger courtyard. Dismounting and turning the steeds over to the care of grooms, horsemen dispersed in different directions. Sephiroth headed to donjon, the prisoner and his squire following not far behind. By the second gates he ran into his stepmother.

Marguerite threw his arms around his neck in a rather _unmotherly _manner, not ashamed of the numerous pairs of prying eyes that could be watching them at the moment.

"Thank God, you came back. Did you get hurt? Did you get enough sleep? You look pale and tired. Have you been imperiled?" Questions rained down upon him, stunning by their number; his stepmother didn't give him time to thrust even a single word. Sephiroth gently freed himself from her tight enfold, finding himself casually thinking that her lips, brushing his cheek just a moment ago, felt cold, unlike the pair of Genesis' fiery ones.

"I am perfectly fine, mother." With that he intended to slip past her, but Marguerite wasn't willing to give up that easily.

"You've been gone for three days and didn't even find time for letting me hear from you. I was worried." Looking at her face, Sephiroth felt slight remorse; after all, she was indeed worried, even with all her unchaste intentions, and it wouldn't have really taken that much time to write a letter. But being captured and then confronted by Genesis certainly didn't help him get over the turmoil, which was there, even if carefully hidden behind a cold stoic mask. Such simple thought didn't occur to him, and, perhaps, he was wrong. "What if you were injured and I wouldn't know? I wouldn't be there to take care of you."

She was speaking like his wife with tearful eyes and her voice rang slightly shaken; again the silver-haired knight found himself at a loss of what to say. He wasn't that good with women and their ruses, unable to discern sincerity from a well performed act to get his attention. Sephiroth could feel Genesis' mocking gaze set against his back, grateful the redhead kept his venomous remarks to himself. Should he have chosen otherwise, Sephiroth wasn't sure of his self-mastery this time.

"I can take care of myself." He replied a bit awkwardly, feeling he was making a fool of himself, and eager to get over this unduly overstated sentimentalism as soon as possible.

Marguerite sighed, taking a step back; however, her pale opal eyes narrowed and she tensed the moment her gaze fell upon Genesis, who stood behind his shoulder.

"Who is it? Why did you bring this filth with you?"

Sephiroth cringed; even though he was angry with the redhead, calling him 'filth' was wrong.

"I hope I earned a right to make my own decisions in this house," he rebuked coldly, missing the moment when Genesis had drawled with that same ever-present mockery in his mannerism.

"My name is Genesis, milady."

"He dared speaking to me without being told so! My father was a king and…"

The silver-haired knight interrupted her with a subtle gesture of his hand, waving to the nearby guard.

"Throw him into the dungeon. Are you satisfied now, mother?"

With a twitch on thin lips Sephiroth finally walked by dumbfounded Marguerite. Behind him Alber was humming in a low voice.

'…_I see no use for their love, no need for the pain they always bring…'_

* * *

'I will not hold out here for long,' was Genesis' first thought after the door slammed behind a guard in yellow and blue. He gingerly took a step, lowering himself on the floor and froze, leaning against the thick stone wall, pulling his knees up to his chin.

Narrow and long, the damp cell ended in a wall with a small window hewed in it. It gave enough light to make out all unpretentious surroundings, which were a narrow bunk and a tilted wooden table, nothing of interest to the redhead.

He hated small premises, which reminded him of the monastic cells where he spent his childhood years, crying from nightmares. They returned each time he ended up in one of those.

The dampness struck through him and he began shivering, unable to reach out and find a wooden sliver in his pocket. The world lacked truth and faith, gifting him with _their_ enthralling voices.

And _they _were not kind.

* * *

Sephiroth looked through the letter one last time and put the parchment aside, pondering over the words his stepfather wrote. He didn't know whether to be worried or rejoiced. The Count was helped up in Paris until the end of spring, which meant the responsibilities of gathering his vassals for the upcoming campaign would be incumbent upon him. Dealing with Marguerite was the downside of the matters, but he always managed to.

The window in the library hall was opened, and the air was fresh, the scent of greenery, brought from the nearby fields, invigorating. Brushing an unruly silver lock off his forehead, Sephiroth leaned over the table and reached for another piece of parchment, mottled with narrow calligraphic handwriting any scribe would die from envy upon seeing. It was a list of his stepfather's vassals who had to bring their batailles to the assembly place. Sephiroth scrupulously put it together after the uprising in Flanders; the list included around half a thousand of bannerets, about as many bacheliers and a dozen of cities. It meant the Count had to provide around nine thousands of knights and light infantry for the French army; however, it was a perfect amount. Sephiroth has never seen all vassals answering his stepfather's call, and now it was his duty to make that number as large as possible.

Light steps distracted him from reading the list. The knight raised his head in time to see Marguerite entering the library, her light blue dress a bright gliding spot among the dark shelves and huge old tomes.

An evanescent crease appeared on Sephiroth's flawless forehead. After that encounter between his stepmother and Genesis earlier in the day, it seemed the tension between them was only mounting. However, he was relieved to hear her resigned voice, saying "I came to apologize" the moment she neared the table.

Sephiroth gracefully leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

"You are certainly more than capable of making your own decisions, my son." She continued with a conciliatory smile. "You have grown up to become a pride and joy to me and your father. Any mother would have been grateful to God for such a child."

The knight daintily inclined his silver head.

"Apology accepted."

"I am glad to hear you are adult enough to realize I only wish to help." Marguerite took a seat by his side, opal eyes catching sight of the Count's letter. "Did Louis write about the campaign?" He nodded. "Is His Majesty enjoying good health?"

"Indeed, but I fear he might not be enjoying it for too long," he gravely responded. "Edward is claiming the French crown again."

"Insolents!" His stepmother exclaimed with ire. "And to believe they are of my own bloodline… My grandfather, may he rest in peace, would have never endured such insults. So if my help is of any use, I will gladly put my efforts to aid you."

Sephiroth watched her fine face with a deadpan expression. He didn't know how to take such a sudden change, from accusation and anger to politeness, finding it hard to understand women. Perhaps, only Genesis would have felt at ease with her. The thought provoked a faint amused smile, which his stepmother undoubtedly took as a good sign of his forgiveness.

"We will need to invite some of them over to Chateau de Thil," Sephiroth showed her the parchment, "along with a Lombard merchant and a representative of the Nevers' commune."

"You don't think we have enough money, do you?" Marguerite echoed immediately, displaying acumen peculiar to most of her kin. 'Their kin,' Sephiroth had to remind himself.

"I am afraid we face shortage."

His stepmother flashed a bedazzling smile at him and with an innate calm imperiousness of a queen spoke.

"I know Lorenzo well enough through the deals he made with Louis. He has a weakness for subtle flattery, and that shall be given to him in abundance. If he is willing to sell his self-importance for money, why not play up to his ambitions? He is young and we will promise him… we will promise…" She became thoughtful and paused. "I'll have to think what we will promise him, my dearest son, and his money will hopefully help you recruit enough vassals. Gold does wonders."

Sephiroth watched Marguerite with a slightly puzzled look on marble face, as though he was seeing her for the first time, yet as reluctant as he felt, he had to admit his stepmother was right. The silver-haired knight was about to respond, when a guard entered the library.

"Messire, Genesis wants to see you."

"And who is he," Sephiroth drawled coldly, "to demand my presence?"

The guard uncomfortably shifted, casting glances at him and at his stepmother.

"I thought so as well, at first. But he is in a really bad shape."

Sephiroth leapt up before the sentry even finished, earning a glare from Marguerite he didn't quite like. Calming down, he regained his composure.

"Lead the way. We will finish after I am back," last words were meant for his stepmother.

Stepping out of the library into the scarcely alight hallway, Sephiroth felt grateful Marguerite decided to play the role of a patient mother till the end.

… Sephiroth had to bend his head, entering a small and damp corridor of the dungeon. Genesis lay, writhing, on hay in the corner of a small cell, first in the row of identical ones, clutching the iron bars as though they were the last salvo to hold onto. Cerulean eyes were closed and in the sheen of torches goldish skin looked frighteningly pale. It didn't seem that he was faking his state.

Sephiroth's gaze settled on the redhead's face, sudden, unknown pity filling his heart; he felt it as a prick of a needle. Genesis' pride was as flickering flames, nearly blown out by a strong gust of wind, as light downy ash.

"Will you be silent, ever?" The redhead faintly moaned eyes still closed.

"He's been repeating it for the last half an hour." The guard whispered with uncertainty. "Then he suddenly screamed and asked for you. I though I'd better seek you out, messire." He crossed himself. "Perhaps, he is in need for a priest."

Despite being angry with Genesis' impermissible behavior earlier, Sephiroth knew he was not heartless to leave the redhead in the cell, inflicting him more torture. He was not an Inquisitor or a fanatic.

"Genesis," he called out, nearing the bars. The redhead jerked, raising his head, and looked through him, letting him notice that bottomless cerulean eyes were empty.

"Did you come to gloat upon my humiliation, _messire_?" Genesis still found strength to sneer, and unlike the time he was juggling the throng, the title was no longer a dirty word in his mouth, but rather a shade of bitter mockery. "I can't stay in the dungeon. It's going to drive me insane before the day of the trial."

It was a blunt avowal, a genuine humble resignation and Sephiroth didn't understand his reaction to it, which left him startled beyond speech, nor did he want to. Finally he found strength to speak, although it was not Genesis he addressed.

"Bring him to my chamber, but keep him chained. I don't want any incidents."

Genesis looked at him intently, eyes still hollow, yet somewhere in their depths flames were kindling. Sephiroth didn't know why it was so hard to bear that gaze or why it stirred such reminiscent agitation in him.

He only knew once Marguerite found out, she would be displeased.

* * *

Sephiroth sat in his father's place, an epitome of pride and grace, dressed in a sumptuous silken black cotardie with narrow sleeves, high collar and silver buttons, so tight-fitting it penciled the smooth line of broad shoulders and accentuated majestic bearing. Long silver hair was scattered around him in a veil of dainty work, faintly glistening as morning dew each time he turned to address a neighbor on the left. Marguerite sat to his right, and each time he picked up a goblet to take a sip he could smell her delicate perfume. This time she wore another green dress, lavishly decorated with gems; pearl gauze tightened her brown wavy hair and a glistening necklace twined around her chiseled neck as a snake. An ever-present radiant smile shone on her face, snow-white teeth sparkling between plushy lips every time she laughed. Perhaps, looking at them sitting together under a yellow and blue canopy, many of the present nobles thought that Sephiroth and Marguerite would have made a stunning couple, which, he had to admit, was a fair guess. But Marguerite was his stepfather's wife.

There was another 'but' he was not in the mood to think about.

A goblet with finest Burundy wine stood by his plate barely tasted. Feasts like this were intended for entertaining guests, and even though Sephiroth disliked noisy medleys, he had to take his part in them. Emerald eyes slowly slid along the rows of men and women in posh dresses, who sat on both sides of a long table crammed with dishes of wildfowl and mutton, delicacies and wine. A huge fireplace was lit, and servants moved to and fro to feed the flames.

From a dais Sephiroth got a perfect view of the whole knight's hall, noticing glances and gestures his guests exchanged. The castle returned to life before his eyes, filling with cheerful, idle chatter, frivolous laughs and rather flat jokes as nobles communed with spirits, taking delicious meat after each healthy gulp.

"Your stepmother is a beautiful woman," a noble to his left suddenly said, raising his goblet; a baron, as Sephiroth could judge from his outfit and coat of arms. He noticed a glint in dark eyes each time baron's gaze fell on Marguerite. "I propose a toast to health of our generous mistress."

Those words rang louder, and a couple of other voices took up on his suggestion at once.

"A toast!"

"Let him say a toast!"

Marguerite slightly blushed, her face wreathing in another smile, bold, winsome, and dazzling.

"I would love to," her melodious voice nearly sang.

"I am your most humble servant, milady" a handsome baron with rich moustache and curly dark hair politely inclined his head, eyes devouring his stepmother. He stood up, a slightly stout frame towering above the table, cleared his throat. "Let us raise our goblets to the most beautiful woman with many virtues and merits and an only flaw of being already married."

Many guests roared with laughter, drunk enough for such a vapid and quite insulting joke to cheer them up. Sephiroth sat closer to his stepmother and knew her longer and better than any of those present to notice she disliked it, yet her gestures didn't betray any of the discontent.

"You flatter me, baron," Marguerite honeyed, squeezing Sephiroth's hand, keeping him from a sharp retort and nearly hissing into his ear. "Not here and not now, I am begging you."

The silver-haired knight relaxed, unnoticeably freeing his hand and taking a sip from the goblet to busy himself with something.

"What is the news from Paris?" Meanwhile his stepmother ably changed subject, taking the strain off.

"His Majesty, may God grant him wisdom and many long years, is responding to the landing of Edward's troops in Normandy. He is planning to leave the capital by the end of July and set out towards the invaders. States General is forced to raise taxes again, for the second time this year, and generally common people are dissatisfied. We might expect an uprising."

Those words, spoken in a smooth voice, belonged to Lorenzo, a young man in his late twenties, dressed in a dark blue cotardie, adorned with furs. A cunning smile seemed glued to his sleek face yet his glance was contradictory straight and honest. He was a Lombard merchant, known for lending money to the Count Nevers' family.

"It's about time the king does something about the Englishmen," stout baron growled out, suppressing a hiccup.

Sephiroth lost all interest in the conversation, returning to observing the hall. Lorenzo didn't say anything he did not know; although news from the capital could travel slowly to some villages and provinces, with his stepfather being a peer he always got to know the news among the first. Letting the discussion die away, the silver-haired knight raised his goblet for a short speech. It became quiet in the hall immediately. Sephiroth pushed away the chair and rose, a pillar of silver and black, all eyes riveting on him.

"Noble knights and gallant sirs," he began, hiding a smirk in the edges of thin lips, "lend me your ears, for we are gathered here in an uneasy hour. The war stands on our threshold, a war we have already lost once. Let us never forget about the dead and never become the disgrace for the living. To God and King!" Sephiroth proclaimed and moistened his lips with wine.

'To God and King!" The guests bellowed together, raising their goblets and drinking. The silver-haired knight took a seat, absently glancing at his full plate and feeling suddenly tired. He didn't like speaking to the large audience, always feeling he was missing something.

"Excellent speech," it was Marguerite's whisper. He nodded, picking up a fork and taking a bite from the piece of pie with hazel-hens and quails. His mouth suddenly felt dry.

After the speech nobles began rising and switching their places. His stepmother disappeared in the throng, and he found himself sitting by Lorenzo. He took an instant dislike of the young man, even before he spoke in that same smooth flowing voice.

"I take it you are Count Nevers' stepson."

"I am." His answer was curt and shrug even.

"Lovely milady Marguerite invited me," he continued with a widening cunning smile, "and I gladly came, hoping you could help me resolving a … delicate matter that has been troubling me and my father. As much as I hate admitting it, gallant sir, but the Count still owes me a thousand livres."

Sephiroth forced a smile, knowing, however, that full plate armor on a straw scarecrow looked more natural. Flattering the '_money bags'_, while his people were shedding blood and dying for them, wasn't his favorite undertaking.

Marguerite saved him the trouble of finding a suitable pleasant answer before he ruined everything, emerging from the crowd and, taking a seat by his side, prattled something into Lorenzo's ear. For the first time in many years Sephiroth recalled being extremely grateful to his stepmother.

Alone now, he took another sip from the goblet and wearily closed his eyes.

Two hours later Sephiroth gladly found himself ascending the stairs to his bedchamber. The feast was over; Marguerite was extremely pleased, being able to coax Lorenzo into lending them another substantial amount of money, and the knight felt overwhelming fatigue, as though he had spent those hours sparring.

Genesis sat in the chair with a book in his hands and heavy shackles hung from his wrists. It's been a third night they've been sleeping in adjoining rooms, and Sephiroth felt calm confidence the redhead could not escape with iron fetters on his legs and arms and sentires posted in the castle. Shackles faintly clanged each time Genesis moved.

Sephiroth arrogantly dropped "Entertain me," instead of a greeting upon entering, loosening his belt and unbuttoning black silken cotardie.

A chuckle rang as a little bell and Genesis put the book aside.

"I am not a court jester."

The silver-haired knight felt too tired to bother with a retort. Coming up to a nightstand, he picked up a comb and gently slid it through the waterfall of silver hair, repeating senseless gestures with pleasure. He was a person of habits and strict rules.

Genesis shifted in the chair.

"You look like a woman with a comb."

At first Genesis' mocking replica woke anger, which suddenly died, giving way to a smile, first genuine though tired smile during the whole evening.

"And you sound like a court jester," Sephiroth spoke softly, looking at the redhead over his shoulder.

"If you think about it, this lot is far better than others. You get fed, you have shelter and all you have to do is use your natural wit to entertain a noble. A lot far better than that of a mendicant monk."

"It is obvious you hate everything about the church. Why are you doing it, I wonder?" He asked as indifferently as possible.

"I have my own reasons." Melodic voice flowed smoothly, and Sephiroth found himself loving just the sound of it, even if it could be making stinging remarks.

"Name one. I am curious."

A comb dived into the satiny waterfall and emerged for the last time before Genesis finally spoke.

"Besides not having a better choice? Humph… let me think. You can't pretend being a monk; to play one you actually have to be one. How ironic, don't you think?"

Sephiroth slipped out of his formal clothing and eased into the bed, wrapping himself in thick blanket from Flemish wool and throwing back his head onto the pillow. Now he was watching Genesis through half-closed eyelids, hoping for a nightlong sleep.

"Thank you for letting me out of the prison."

It rang unexpectedly, yet couldn't fully register in his hazed mind. Sephiroth only had time to wonder why it rang with so much genuine emotion and seriousness.

"Don't thank me yet. Your trial is in two weeks." The silver-haired knight mumbled before finally slipping into soothing dreamless slumber unaware of a pair of bright cerulean eyes, watching him intently.

Little did Sephiroth know that in two weeks life could change more dramatically than in three decades.

* * *

A/N: ** This is a fragment from 'The Song of the Nibelungs'. It was one of my first reading passions, so, yeah, had to mention it. ^_^


	7. Chapter VI: Temptations and doubts

_Summary_: Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346. The story is, of course, fictional, but the setting will be kept close to reality.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N: _Hm… this chapter is centred on Seph and Gen more or less, so beware of complex issues :) And, yeah, inspiration is such a great feeling! ^_^

_**Short list of names**__**, events, etc:**_

_The __Children's Crusade (1212)_ – a Crusade, led to the Holy land, by a boy and resulted in death of thousands of children. Later historians doubted that all participants were children, but at the time of this story it was a myth in its original form. Whether they were or not children and of what age, still remains unclear.

_Deus vult! (lat.)_ - God wills it!

_Imperium (lat.)_ - absolute power.

_Imprimis (lat.)_ - in the first place.

_Divide et impera (lat.)_ – divide and conquer.

_De novo (lat.)_ – anew.

* * *

_**Chapter VI.**_

_**Temptations and doubts**__**.**_

'_And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.' (John 8:32, KJV)._

Steps. Genesis can't take them without hearing the same faint clang, without feeling the burden of iron shackles, hindering his movements, clasping him to the floor. Yet sitting in a chair all the time oppresses, motionlessness weighs down, annoys, angers as does inertia. He has to take them, those three steps he is allowed to, once, twice, circling his chair with a senseless stubborn constancy.

Sephiroth is sleeping, his silhouette barely visible in darkness behind the silver canopy. Everything about him is silver and almost ethereal. Genesis presses his hands to his face, then swiftly removes them, turns to the window and looks out, seeing a tiny scrap of moonlit sky. Fingers freeze in their thoughtful caress through luxuriant auburn hair.

He keeps wondering if he is able to take the knight's life now, after a couple of sleepless nights in his palpable, although silent, presence and how the question of capability imperceptibly becomes secondary to the question of need and wish.

As much as he wants freedom, his only way of getting it is through the silver-haired knight. He has two weeks to find the knight's weak spots, to charm him and beguile into a false sense of control; then he'll accept Genesis' vengeful plans as his own. Then he will have to renounce his superiority and see him as an equal.

Then Genesis will not face trial.

Is it impossible?

The redhead freezes, casts a quick, almost guilty glance at the bed, as though he should not be witnessing Sephiroth sleeping, as though by prying he was stealing something from the silver-haired knight, his mask, his pride, his mystery.

His silent contemplation reminds Genesis of the night six years ago and another one in the village, of liquid silver tresses between his fingers and thin lips, joined with his in a kiss so close to death it intoxicates. Rich lips involuntarily fold into a smirk.

The challenge has already proven to be breathtaking; with just a little more effort it will become an ultimate victory.

* * *

Sephiroth's mornings became different, of more enjoyable, delightful kind, since Genesis settled in the adjoining room. The silver-haired knight was used to getting up early, when rays of the rising sun barely painted the towers of the donjon, having a hard time dismissing the memories of the bitter defeat he tasted in Flanders.

Now he was met by Genesis' daring comments and tactless remarks, finding himself more and more pleased while in the redhead's presence. The knight even started to forget the humiliating mistake he made at Crecy. Was he truly… intrigued? Impressed? Captivated? Or, perhaps, all three of these feelings put together into one that had no name to it yet?

He even started spending more time with the redhead in the evenings.

With a shrug Sephiroth threw off his long silver hair and buttoned his undershirt. Silken yet simple blue cotardie and shoes with pointed toes followed, concluding his casual dress for this day. The knight straightened and hitched a bastard sword to his belt. Sun shone brightly through the windows, promising another warm spring day.

"Don't you ever get bored with the tedious duties I watch you perform every day?"

Behind him Genesis rose and circled the chair to stretch.

"And are you watching me every day?" Sephiroth parried with a smirk. He was not soon provoked, however teased.

The redhead laughed.

"You didn't give me much of a choice, did you?" Chains and shackles clanged as he extended his arms.

Sephiroth leaned against the adorned wooden pillars of his bed, smirk fading away.

"Duties are duties, Genesis." Emerald eyes met azure ones. "You are not expected to like them, only fulfill them."

The redhead snorted with a toss of his head.

"You sound like my theology professor in Paris. Did you ever want something more from this life, outside the boundaries of this castle and its monotonous matters?"

The silver-haired knight disliked both the tone and the question asked. He wanted, but it was not that simple.

"Life does not always come to a question of one's personal wish," he stated flatly.

"So you say." Genesis perched on the armchair, stretching his legs and picking up a book.

Sephiroth shook his head with disapproval; sometimes he forgot who he was talking to.

…A letter awaited him downstairs. Breaking the seal, the silver-haired knight glanced over its contents. The message from a merchant said that the weapons he had ordered arrived and he was welcome to inspect them any time. Throwing a thick silver cloak over his shoulders, Sephiroth ordered Alber to ready his horse and headed for the city.

* * *

Nevers was a small, close to a rural village, city. It was not a century and a half after the described events that the Ducal Palace, a majestic Renaissance edifice, was built by the house of Cleves, turning it into a larger and more boisterous community.

Upon passing the city gates Sephiroth was met by a vapid sight of gloomy narrow streets, spattered with mud and sewage, with squeaking rats, springing from underneath the hooves of the chestnut he borrowed form his stepfather's stables for this journey. Two or three storey buildings with jutting stores hung over the paved streets of the size of a pathway. Here and there pigs and sheep grazed where small children in dirty or even torn clothing played. Small traders bustled about the market square, conveying hot food, broadcloth, and flour. Emerald eyes slid along the crowd, never lingering on any particular detail. He came here for the weapons.

The knight wore a deep hood, which concealed his chiselled features and waist-length silver hair, finding it undesirable for anyone to recognize him. He had enough rumors surrounding him already. A procession of mendicant cripples and lepers crawled by his horse, and he thanked his vigilance again, otherwise the whole street would have been momentarily filled with cries and entireties, meant to wake his mercy and coax to part with a single golden coin.

"Waffles, warm waffles, noble ladies and gents!" A cry reached his ears before the knight saw a young man with a tray of what appeared to be hot waffles indeed. Glancing to the opposite side of the street, Sephiroth caught sight of an armourer's signboard. He reached for the silken purse and extended Alber a copper.

"Get yourself a waffle."

His squire replied with a happy grin, dismounting and following the young trader. Meanwhile Sephiroth hitched his mare to the handrail, leaving both horses to the care of a hired guard, and entered a large dusty and wanly alight room.

Once he threw his hood off and smoothed tangled silver hair a man in an apron came from behind a long wooden counter.

"I am glad to see you, messire," he bowed. "I shall get my master right away."

Sephiroth gave him a gallant nod and began looking around. The armourer's store was crammed with weapon racks, maces, swords, daggers neatly laid out underneath the glass on pieces of dark green cloth. His business must have been flourishing during the war; as always it provoked a rueful smile.

Certain things never changed. Some were dying on the battlefields and others thrived on their blood.

Long fingers slowly slid along the glass. Underneath Sephiroth noticed a one and a half handled sword of unusual shape and mastery. While its cruciform bow lacked any kind of significant adornment, the double-edged blade, starting from the middle, became a flamboyant steel pattern. It was not only a masterpiece; the curved part would no doubt inflict vast damage with each deep thrust.

The silver-haired knight was so engrossed in contemplating the exotic brand that a sudden replica made him slightly flinch.

"What will you advise me to buy, sire, a stiletto or a dagger?"

Sephiroth recognized this smooth voice at once, more so since he met Lorenzo merely a few days ago. He turned to face the young man with perfect calm.

"A dagger. It is longer and less subtle than a misericord, yet will provide you with a better defense."

The young man smiled, playing with furs on his cotardie.

"I appreciate your expertise. But since we've already started talking about weapons, may I ask something else?"

Sephiroth curtly nodded, emerald eyes intently watching Lorenzo's every move. What was the real goal of this meaningless conversation?

"What should I buy for a hunting season? Say, if I wanted a fox or a wild boar?"

Sephiroth frowned. He disliked gentle hints and replicas, whose meaning he didn't fully understand.

"You should rely on the endurance of your hounds, Lorenzo." The deep voice rang sharper than it should have. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an important matter to finish."

"By all means, messire."

The Lombard was politeness incarnate.

The owner of the store delivered Sephiroth from the presence of the young merchant. The silver-haired knight followed a middle-aged stout man into the smaller premise behind the counter. There, under the oiled sackcloth, lay three dozens of short swords and another dozen of maces. He thoroughly inspected the condition of each piece and, finding it excellent, addressed the owner.

"I expect the delivery made in three days. And include a flamboyant brand in it as well."

The armourer bowed, accepting a small purse of money with slightly trembling hands.

Yes, Marguerite was right.

Gold could do wonders.

As could words.

* * *

Legs crossed and arms folded, Sephiroth leaned against the wall and looked out of the window. Emerald eyes riveted on the castle below, its contours barely visible in darkness. The courtyard was dotted with bright spots of moving torches and fires, lit in the huts. Seeing his castle always brought an overwhelming sensation of peace.

"Why did you burn the church, Genesis?" The question was addressed to his redheaded interlocutor, who lazily lolled in an armchair. The silver-haired knight kept his face averted and hidden in the satiny waterfall, unwilling to openly display any curiosity. Yet.

"You will not understand."

"Unless you tell me, I certainly won't."

The redhead moved, which he could tell by the clang of shackles. Something fell on a wooden table he sat by with a faint thud.

Sephiroth turned and neared him. On a table top lay a small wooden sliver; looking closely, he noticed a word, engraved on it, 'veritas'. His gaze then shifted to Genesis who was watching him straight-faced.

"What is there not to understand?" He pondered. "'Veritas' stands for 'truth' in Latin."

He picked it up, noticing how smooth it was by touch, twiddled in his long fingers. There was nothing on it, besides a single word.

"I thought you'd look beyond just words." Again it was mockery, so blunt and straightforward, so unlike the man who was speaking. Sephiroth got used to his audacious manners and dismissed another twit with a shrug.

"Enlighten me then."

"What is truth?" Deep azure eyes sparkled as Genesis drew forward to take a sliver from his hands. "Truth is a weapon, of a deadlier kind than any of your swords or maces would ever become. You were not there when the peasants burnt the church; you didn't see it, the fervor, the primal cruelty, the blindness. What I did to those villagers turned them into a force more dangerous than any mailed cavalry on best destriers." The self-satisfied smirk on lush lips reeked of superiority, of arrogance; reviving his triumph, the redhead was enjoying every moment. "And what did I do to them? Did I force them by threats or by pointing _pieces of iron_ to their throats? No. I simply proclaimed myself in possession of the truth instead, divine absolute truth."

They were interrupted by the creak of an opening door. Sephiroth became so thoughtful, following and pondering over Genesis' words, that he missed the moment two servants entered his chambers with a tray of food. The knight ordered his supper to be brought upstairs; it was a good day and he was in the mood for a good conversation with Genesis.

Sephiroth waited until the servants set the table, dismissed them and pulled a chair to sit near the redhead.

"Insofar as it concerns me, you broke the law," he offered sternly, pouring wine into his and Genesis' goblet.

It didn't seem to offend him; on the contrary, Genesis laughed, derisively tilting his head so that auburn hair fell across his right eye.

"Are you a faithful Christian?"

The question left him frowning.

"I am a good Catholic," the deep voice rang with obvious doubt. The Church never played an important part in his life. "I go to a mass every Sunday, attend a shrift every month and…"

"Then you are not good enough, which is pleasant to know for a start, _messire_," white teeth sparkled between lush lips. "Tell me then how I am different from a boy, who led a Crusade to the Holy Land. '_Deus vult!' _he said and thousands of children died."

"You know it is not a question of quantity…"

"Of course, I do. Imprimis, it is the question of semantics." Genesis nearly spat those words out with contempt. Sephiroth swallowed a piece of delicious pie, raising his head and looking at the redhead. Much to his amusement his interlocutor's mood changed so quickly it was impossible to predict his reaction to any words or gestures. "The boy was a _good_ Catholic, whereas my truth opposed the Mother Church."

"But how can two opposite absolute truths peacefully co-exist?"

"Now, that is a brilliant question," mockery, sweet and light now. Why was he never tired of mockery? Then Genesis' face turned serious. "In hindsight you are right. They can't, being doomed to fight until the strongest wins or they both lose, which suits me either way. If I take the weapon of absolute truth from the Catholic Church, divide it long enough, its imperium would be diminished."

His last words were spoken with unhidden passionate triumph.

"Divide et impera," Sephiroth mused thoughtfully. Everything Genesis has just said made sense… in a cozy room during a casual light conversation over delicate drinks. Otherwise it sounded impossible, fraught with bloodshed and centuries of religious wars, of no real worth and unjustified to the people. He slowly tasted wine and the redhead followed his example. "It still doesn't explain why you are doing it."

Something changed abruptly, shrewdly. One moment Genesis was all radiant with triumph, his gestures casual, and the next he visibly shuddered, hiding behind a wall, invisible but there.

"I believe it's my turn to ask questions," the redhead tossed the sliver over to him so brusquely the knight didn't catch it. It landed on the floor on the blank side. Sephiroth calmly picked it up, placed on the table between them.

Genesis impetuously brought a goblet to his lips, gulped it, fingers convulsively clenching the wooden piece. For a moment it looked like he was going to say something, then settled back in his chair, returning to his previous placid mood.

"Indulge my curiosity then. Why didn't you get married?"

Sephiroth brought a goblet to his lips, watching the redhead above the sparkling ruby drink with a gleam of amusement in emerald eyes. Why did Genesis want to know?

"I actually was married once to a girl by the name of Joan de Bloy, a daughter of a count with a small estate, who was more than glad to become related with a powerful noble such as my stepfather." Emerald eyes turned distant. "I was fifteen, she was thirteen. She died a year later. I only recall her name; her face was effaced from my memory over the years." The knight cast his eyes down, noticing that the goblet was empty. "Did I give you a sufficient answer?"

"But you could have married another woman in due time, after the mourning, with your looks and nobility."

He didn't wish to give an answer at first. He never confided his reluctance to have a family to anyone, not even his stepparents. Silence ensued, in which he absently twiddled the stem in his long fingers, avoiding burning cerulean eyes. Candles went out, leaving the room illumined by a small fireplace only, gestures and faces concealed in cozy semidarkness, an alluring veil of mystery thrown over them. Flames faintly crackled in silence together with clangs of shackles as Genesis reached out to undo couple of buttons on his shirt. The room turned hot, sultry even, although he wore nothing besides a loose white flaxen undershirt.

Finally with an inaudible sigh the silver-haired knight continued.

"My full name is Sephiroth Mensil, viscount du Bugey, but those titles are hollow. When I was twenty three my family was exiled from Flanders and I lost my ancestral feud." Bitter smile touched the edges of thin lips. "What is the reason to have a family if I can't give my children a decent future? All you see belongs to my stepfather and after his death will be inherited by his son. My children, if I had any, would end up on the street."

He really shouldn't have had that much wine and talked that much. Sephiroth resolutely put the goblet aside. Having finished his meal, Genesis was playing with the wooden sliver, and the silver-haired knight was grateful the redhead remained silent. Words will not bring his feud back, nor will they comfort him, only remind of his failures, which he never liked to be reminded of. It added bitterness, as though there wasn't enough of it already.

"Let's drink, Sephiroth."

Genesis was unusually quiet and dismal. He shrugged, filling their goblets. His thoughts were hazed from strong Burgundy or from Genesis' presence, which became intoxicating at this point. Raising a glass he handed it over to the redhead, their fingers brushing so slightly over the stems. Genesis smiled, threw his head back, exposing refined curve of his neck between the collar and a slit of his shirt. Crimson flames were dancing in cerulean eyes, plushy lips glistening as rubies from wine and faint sheens of fire. Sephiroth found himself thinking that the redhead looked like a beautiful porcelain doll, so frail at times it seemed feminine, yet this appearance was deceptive, hiding depths no woman, including his stepmother, could ever possess.

No one ever dared challenging him before; even Marguerite had to give up each time.

Glasses met with a faint ding, Genesis shifted a bit closer and suddenly, instead of taking a sip, put the goblet down and took his away. The knight let it go, leaning over to follow the redhead's movements, and gently covered Genesis' rich lips with his mouth, tasting their warmth and softness. He wanted the first kiss slow, getting to know Genesis de novo, although he didn't seem to be different in love than in a conversation, impetuous, demanding and playful. He drew forward, not surprised, eager even, responding to his tender caress by probing his lips with his slick tongue and sliding it in between to meet his own in a virtuosic pirouette.

His heart skipped a beat, pulse quickening with the heat that was spreading through his body. Sephiroth's hand reached for the buttons on Genesis' undershirt, slid inside, stroking his velvety skin, twining around his neck and feeling an ugly coarse scar, marring the perfect smoothness. His thoughts were still in a strange haze.

Kissing a woman, Sephiroth never felt like this, as though he was putting his hand into raging flames and instead of pain feeling pleasant enveloping warmth.

Sephiroth's thin lips slowly slid along the curve of Genesis' neck; nipping and licking sleek goldish skin, he finally heard Genesis's sharp breath as the redhead threw his auburn head back into his palm with sweet delight. Sephiroth leaned into his slender body, feeling that Genesis' heart was throbbing hardly any slower than his.

Sweet languor. Genesis' taste on his tongue. Crimson shadows fluttering on their skin.

Sephiroth nipped at his neck a bit harder, the redhead faintly moaned…

How much of Genesis' attraction was sincere and how much – just a mask to manipulate him?

The thought of it suddenly sent a cold chill down his spine, waking him up. With a low groan he broke away from the redhead, disarrayed, hurting and angry, disgusted with himself for letting it go so far. Perhaps, he indeed had too much Burgundy.

"Why did you stop?" Genesis whispered breathlessly, with incomprehension so sincere he nearly bought it.

Emerald eyes flashed darkly.

"You are forgetting that I am a knight and you are a commoner." Pushing the chair aside, Sephiroth uttered coldly with a deadpan expression on marble face and rose to his feet.

"It didn't seem to bother you a moment ago!" The redhead nearly screamed, outraged with his sudden reaction.

Sephiroth staggered, catching a breath, wiping his lips to get the intoxicating taste off them. He couldn't think clearly. He had to get out of his bedchamber.

Behind him Genesis also jumped to his feet, determined to follow, forgetting all prudence in his fury, yet the shackles didn't let him.

Silver flashed and the door closed with a loud thud. He was hurting, he was beside himself with ire and he could still feel Genesis' mellow lips, ablaze with ardor.

* * *

A/N: This was a shorter one, but the next one will be long. :)


	8. Chapter VII: Duty and pleasure, part I

_A/N: __**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Herostratus __–_ a young man, who burnt the temple to Artemis at Ephesus in 356 BC. This was his attempt to make a mark in history even at the price of becoming infamous (which he did).

* * *

_**Chapter VII.**_

_**Duty and pleasure.**_

_**Part I.**_

'_Try fulfilling your duty and you will know your worth.' (Tolstoy L.)_

Sephiroth's steps were light and gait otherworldly as he crossed the sand arena with a bastard sword in his left hand and a shield in his right. Emerald eyes watched the rival intently, calculating, appraising his strength and speed.

It was late afternoon, and low dark clouds foreshadowed a spring thunderstorm later in the evening. The wind pleasantly cooled his skin, tousling silver hair in an evanescent caress.

The adversaries met in the middle of the tiltyard, swords clashed with a loud clang. Misleading the opponent, Sephiroth dodged his thrust, took a swipe at his chest with a shield, hurling the man aside and brusquely riposting. His adversary, a tall, light-haired northerner, leapt backwards, falling to one knee and covering himself with a large shield; Sephiroth retreated, every movement of his brawny body graceful and liquid-like as that of a feline.

They all made the same mistake. For them a sword fight was a blunt skull crushing, and every single one of his opponents failed to understand that, to become efficient, one had to treat it as a form of art not less subtle than poetry or music. That is why he was better or, perhaps, simply the best.

Circling each other, they neared again; the silver-haired knight swung his arm for a fatal blow that would have cleaved the northerner in half yet his blade was met by a short sword. Out of the corner of his eye Sephiroth noticed a moving dark spot, instinctively raised his shield to take the blow, movements carved into his inner core to the point of becoming subconscious; with a flowing twitch of his wrist, an abrupt step to the left and a turn he appeared behind his opponent who barely had time to parry, breaking away.

Sephiroth could sense weakness as a predator smelled blood. Dilated pupils, heavy pants, beads of sweat on the forehead, a missed step, a trembling hand – he was used to seeing them all and taking his advantage.

Casting the shield aside, he gripped the handle of the bastard sword with both hands, raising it and lowering with devastating force. The northerner took a step backwards to maintain his balance; the silver-haired knight repeated his hold, increasing the power of a thrust by lunging with his whole body, knocking the sword out of the opponent's hand and sending him to the ground. The tip of bastard sword froze inches from the northerner's throat, emerald eyes ablaze, quickened breaths escaping thin lips; now more than ever the silver-haired knight bore a strong resemblance to a predator before its deadly jump.

The northerner shriveled on sand, gazing at the towering silver frame with genuine fear. He's never seen his seignior in such mood before.

"I yield, messire."

Slowly, reluctantly, Sephiroth took a small step back, dropping his sword. He had to calm down before he did something irremediable, like killing one of his stepfather's vassals.

Yesterday's incident with Genesis must have been affecting him like that.

Wiping his forehead in an absent-minded gesture, viscount turned around and headed for the gate in the low wooden fence, built around the tiltyard.

Behind him a northerner still sat on sand, breathing heavily, unable to move, pinned down to the ground like a sheep before slaughter.

Sephiroth picked up a goblet, scooped water into it and hungrily gulped the icy cold liquid, which put a sudden sharp edge on his temper.

Who was this Genesis? Could there be some truth to his alias, devil's spawn as is? Nearly a week ago the redhead contrived to take him captive and confronted with a dagger, and some days later they were sitting in his bedchamber, kissing. Sephiroth nearly groaned. How could he be so foolish? How could he fall for this devious man's charms with such an ease, forgetting about repercussions of his careless actions. If he was discovered, his reputation would be ruined, his disgrace and fall endless and most likely sooner or later he would have ended up in the hands of Inquisition, facing a choice between a humiliating repentance and an auto-da-fe.

Only thinking that he could trust the redhead, that he was willing to risk as much at the verge of a new war with England for a night of simple pleasure was preposterous. It would not happen again. He was always different from many other nobles. Between duty and vain pleasure he always chose duty.

Clenching his fists, Sephiroth finally managed to calm down. Narrowed emerald eyes swept the empty arena, yet instead of choosing another spar with a different opponent, the silver-haired knight strode across the outer courtyard towards the inner gates, nearly able to feel gazes of chance observers following his steps and whispers flowing from ear to ear, timorous, superstitious rumors.

Soon, he knew, the word of the incident in the tiltyard would reach Marguerite's ears. The question was only how soon.

Then Sephiroth suddenly thought of the two servants who served the table yesterday and saw him dining with a commoner and a criminal. Without a second thought the viscount headed for the kitchen and fired them.

Being a knight certainly had its privileges, delivering him from giving any suitable explanation.

When Sephiroth finally walked up to the small chapel, it was dark outside, and short blinding flashes of lightning were tearing the friable grey clouds asunder, no thunder roar reaching his ears yet. The modest decorations of the premise differed from the usual sumptuousness of interior of a church, being a small crucifix on the wall and a spread out prayer rug on the floor, decorated with ancestral coat of arms, large enough for two people to kneel together. The viscount knew his stepfather ordered it for himself and Marguerite along with the Bible that lay on the stand.

His back straight and gaze lifted up instead of the requisite humble downcast look, Sephiroth slowly knelt down and closed his eyes, freezing, lips repeating simple Latin words of '_Pater noster'_.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis," he whispered, "sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum…"

He was not asking for God's advice as it wasn't his habit to impose his burden on anyone's shoulders, God's included, yet simple words of the Lord's Prayer calmed down and trimmed his thoughts.

In the deafening peal of thunder he missed the rustling of a dress on the floor as his stepmother entered the chapel and slipped into a kneeling position by his side.

"Sephiroth, what happened?"

Palms closed up under her refined chin, head fell onto her chest, a mass of wavy brown hair cascading over her face, and viscount felt a faint scent of her perfume.

"It was a brief loss of temper; I am fine now, mother."

"What has been troubling you?"

"Nothing worth speaking about."

"Don't lie to your mother," she rebuked with an accusative glace.

Sephiroth barely restrained himself from a sharp retort. By prying into his personal matters she was only making it worse, the doubts, the questions left unanswered, the disgust he felt for his carelessness.

"Mother, please, let us forget about this discussion." He answered with as much indifference as he could muster.

Marguerite frowned, "Why hast thou been reluctant to share anything with me?"

"I am not a child any more. If it was something important, you would have known."

"For any mother a child remains a child for a lifetime."

Her fingers ghosted over his forearm. 'A child…' he wanted to laugh bitterly at her words. Marguerite never saw a child in him; after all, they were nearly of the same age with just a couple of years' difference, a trifling difference.

He never had a true mother, Sephiroth wanted to tell her; a woman who gave birth to him was a brief amusement for the Iron King, discarded and forgotten after his death as he would have been if not for interference of the Count. Marguerite chose differently, never bothering to understand that when he truly needed a mother she was busy either caring for her little son or trying to seduce him.

Now it was too late.

Sephiroth hung his head; shorter silver tresses touched his chest, hiding his face and a rueful smile on thin lips.

"I would like to pray in silence, mother."

The only man who seemed to understand him was a felon, a commoner and generally not worthy of his trust.

When he came down, the door to Genesis' adjoined room was closed, and despite everything he thought earlier, Sephiroth felt an inexplicable prick of disappointment. With a sigh he slipped out of his casual clothing and climbed into bed.

Outside the thunderstorm became stronger, ghostly flashes of light and rumblings of thunder preventing him from falling asleep.

* * *

The storm was so severe that on the next morning roads and pathways became impassable form the rain and the hunting divertissement had to be cancelled. Sephiroth gloomily glanced out of the tall lancet window of the knight's hall, now nearly empty, and rested his eyes on the orders he was signing. Long fingers flipped through the endless pages of parchment, as he was collating numbers of taxes received from different provinces with the amounts he should have gotten. Usually his stepfather was to finish them but in his absence it was just another part of viscount's duty. His head was aching since early morning, making it harder to concentrate.

"Alber," Sephiroth addressed his squire who was sitting by the fireplace, lackluster emerald eyes reluctantly focusing on the numbers, which seemed to be a blurred sequence of black and white dots.

"Yes, messire?"

"Play something for me."

The dark-haired youth took a reed-pipe from his pocket, put it to his mouth and began playing a simple yet pleasant tune. Lament and longing in its every note, the melody filled the hall, soothing pain in his head. Viscount let go of the goose quill and reclined on the back of his chair with genuine pleasure, closing his eyes. Alber's melody cleared his thoughts, letting him forget about the taxes, about his stepmother, Genesis and all matters in general, which were never simple yet seemed to become more and more complicated with each day.

Someone's fingers settled on his shoulders, massaging his neck; for an instant he had an absurd thought they were Genesis'. Emerald eyes fluttered open, noticing waves of brown hair above. With a sigh Sephiroth freed himself and leaned over the papers, to his regret no longer feeling that soothing enthrallment.

"Good evening, mother."

His voice didn't ring too affably. Marguerite didn't notice or pretended she didn't.

"You've been working late," she said simply, peering over his shoulder to get a look at the papers.

"I want this done as soon as possible before the vassals would begin arriving."

"Would you like me to play something for you, milady?" Alber chimed in, and the silver-haired knight was glad he did.

His stepmother slipped into a chair by his side.

"Pray do so, Alber."

His squire resumed playing, but Sephiroth could no longer concentrate on the parchment. He was thinking of Genesis, of what to do with him now and how, maybe, he was wrong, judging the redhead too hastily.

He signed last but one order, then handed them over to his stepmother.

"Could you finish the last one?"

She flashed an enigmatic smile at him.

"Of course."

"Thank you."

Sephiroth gestured to Alber and rose with an ironclad intention to talk to Genesis.

* * *

Genesis put the book aside with irritation so distracting he was unable to fight it. For two days he hasn't said a single word to the silver-haired knight, still having difficulty forgetting what he had said about him being a commoner. Sephiroth dared suggesting he was lower, unworthy of his attention, as though they didn't know what both wanted.

Instead the knight decided to act like a bashful peasant virgin.

The redhead rose, face contorted with contempt and anger, the latter still fresh in his memory as if the knight has just thrown those words into his face. Azure eyes settled on the glass shards from a goblet he hurled into the wall, hands twitching in shackles, filling him with maddening desire to break free.

Choking with ire, Genesis fell back into his chair and sprawled out his legs.

If he could only hurt Sephiroth the same way he managed to hurt him, then the arrogant noble would finally understand that for the first time in his life Genesis was sincere, Genesis wanted that kiss and wished to get to know him more.

At least he was genuine enough, yet again Sephiroth managed to bereave him of triumph when he was as close to tasting it as to kissing thin curves of the knight's lips.

He was feeling like he was a burden, a burden to himself, chained to one place, helpless and vulnerable unlike ever before, his fate in the hands of a person who remained a mystery and always one step ahead of him.

The door in the adjoined room closed with a faint thud. Genesis straightened, straining his ears to hear light steps. For two days he's done the same, hoping against hope that the silver-haired knight would open the door that separated them, yet unwilling to admit his desire even to himself.

To his surprise the knight was not alone this time.

"Would you like me to read for you, messire?" Genesis recognized youth's voice. It belonged to Sephiroth's squire, the one who wanted to be like Sifried from a German epic song.

"No, thank you, Alber, I would like to rest," the deep voice answered with weary notes, and the redhead heard the youth retreating hastily.

Then all of a sudden light steps neared his door and it opened with a creak. Genesis turned to the unexpected sound, wrathful azure eyes riveting on the silver-haired frame. Sephiroth himself was standing in the doorway, and the moment the redhead saw him all placid thoughts gave way to one single desire to see him hurt. He wanted to see pain, confusion, any sign of weakness, which he knew was there, behind the always carefully chosen alabaster mask.

"Genesis, I…"

"So now you grace me with your words, after calling me a commoner and leaving chained to the chair in your bedroom." He drawled with a derisive tilt of his head.

Emerald eyes turned dark, it seemed with sorrow or anger, or even both.

"I didn't…"

Yet nothing could stop Genesis now.

"I thought you were not like all those nobles, thriving on flattering their vanity and feeding their egoism, that you were able to realize the linage was not important. I hoped you saw that kings could be born fools and that education and upbringing only shaped a personality." He drew forward, enjoying every moment of the knight's embarrassment. "I was wrong. You are no different."

That had done it. Without adding another word Sephiroth turned around and disappeared in the whirl of glistening silver.

Genesis' gaze rested against the blackness of the closed door. The redhead slowly reclined on the back of the chair, feeling satiated with how he was able to repay the knight in his own coin.

Finally, his words, no matter whether being fair or not, cut Sephiroth to the heart.

* * *

Since early morning the castle resembled a disturbed beehive. A messenger on a foamy horse arrived late at night, bearing the news of the Count's unexpected arrival. It seemed he traveled incognito, sending his squire to the castle only a couple of hours before making an appearance himself.

Marguerite was astonished; her husband has never done anything like that in twenty six years of their marriage.** On the other hand, Sephiroth was not. He always knew his stepfather as a cautious man, and with constantly increasing taxes roads were not becoming safer, making his cortège an easy target for desperate highwaymen.

Viscount and his stepmother barely had time to give orders, so much had to be done. The dinner had to be prepared, Count's personal quarters cleaned, the castle decorated. After all, Louis was absent for nearly two months and wasn't expected to arrive in the next three weeks.

Sephiroth had his hands full and to his content it distracted from thinking about the previous night and his failed attempt to talk to Genesis. Now it became obvious he couldn't and shouldn't have trusted the redhead, which was better to find out earlier than later.

Way past midday the Count's cortège passed the lowered drawbridge. He and Marguerite met the procession in the second courtyard. As Sephiroth suspected his stepfather traveled incognito, escorted by four horsemen and dressed in simple clothes with a dark brown cloak thrown over his broad shoulders.

Gracefully dismounting, the Count embosomed his wife, snatching a tender kiss from her and then gave his stepson a warm sincere hug. A genuine radiant smile was playing across his clean-shaven volitional features. It seemed his stepfather looked ten years younger than before he left Chateau de Thil.

"I hope you took good care of my faithful wife," Louis addressed him with a laugh, putting his strong arm around his stepson's shoulders. Sephiroth had nothing to hide.

"I did, father."

The Count burst out laughing again.

"What happened, dear Louis?" Marguerite cooed into his ear. "We weren't expecting you so soon."

The Count inarmed her as well and the three of them headed for the donjon, leaving horses and the rest of the cortege to the care of servants and grooms.

"His Majesty was kind enough to dismiss his peers, although his decision was abrupt. I had no time to send the letter home, nor did I want to, surrendering to a sudden desire to surprise you."

The hall was ready, steaming fresh dishes brought out onto the Count's table on the dais, soups with pork and beef liver, a half of a roasted calf and baked break.

Castle cooks have been toiling at preparing the dinner on time since dawn. The Count took a seat on his chair with Marguerite to his right and Sephiroth to his left, doing delicious food justice before speaking again. Sephiroth didn't eat much, appearing thoughtful and detached almost all the time.

"Philippe," his stepfather rumbled after having a healthy amount of soup, slamming his palm against the table top, "is going to gather such an army, with which we will crush the Englishmen as worms. Dukes of Lorraine, Burgundy, Count of Alençon and even that blind old man, King John of Bohemia, have all joined our ranks. On top of that His Majesty was lavish, hiring a detachment of Genoese crossbowmen. If all goes as planned, we will be able to gather an army of forty thousands against about twelve thousands of those parvenus, peasants and their insolent king."

Sephrioth wanted to remind his stepfather that cloth-makers and peasants have already been able to defeat him twice, but didn't wish to spoil the excellent mood the Count was in.

"Around nine hundred of your noble vassals are ready to follow you into any battle," Sephiroth said calmly, earning a tap on the shoulder.

"Excellent! I bet you had to meet my personal purse, Lorenzo, that sly fox and master of the weasel words."

"Your son handled everything exceptionally well," honeyed Marguerite.

Servants arrived with the second course, which consisted of pies and sweets, setting dishes on the table. The Count turned to him with a proud smile.

"I know I have taught you well, Sephiroth."

The silver-haired viscount inclined his head, suddenly feeling guilty for his inability to deal with Genesis. It was his responsibility, after all, his utmost duty. His stepparents became engaged in an excited conversation, of which only scraps Sephiroth heard. They were now talking about Louis, their legal son and heir, who now resided at King's court.

Sephiroth took a sip from his goblet. Genesis left him no choice and in addition he had duties, which none could take from him.

Marguerite laughed, responding to her husband's flattery, the Count's voice wavering just a bit from wine he's had over the dinner. The viscount shot a glance a them, feeling sudden unexplainable grief and longing.

The silver-haired knight no longer had doubts. He knew what had to be done.

Sephiroth made his excuses and left the hall in the midst of the dinner. Alone, he ascended the stairs and headed for his bedchamber. Nothing has changed there since yesterday, neither emptiness nor perfect order he's always managed to maintain in his quarters. His steps firm, viscount neared the door to the adjoined room, resolutely opened it to be met by slightly bewildered redhead. Stealing a quick glance at him, Sephiroth came to stand by the window with his back to Genesis, arms folded on his chest.

"You will have to leave, Genesis."

There was a pause before the redhead found words, choosing mockery over sincere astonishment.

"How would I do that with the shackles you've put on me?"

Sephiroth ignored it.

"You cannot stay in the castle. I've come to respect your world-views enough to dismiss any charges and set you free on one condition. You are never to appear in my lands as a false prophet. If I hear you caused unrest in one of my villages or cities again, I shall not be that merciful." He uttered the whole speech distinctly, in a flat voice, no question or doubt in it. "Alber's loyalty to me is unquestionable. He will see you out through the back door."

The redhead laughed.

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple."

Sephiroth turned and with granite face unlocked the shackles. The redhead stretched, rubbing his numb wrists.

"You are serious, aren't you?" Azure eyes were watching him intently, all amusement gone from their enigmatic depths. The knight curtly nodded. "Is it because of what I said yesterday?"

Sephiroth shook his head. He was not in the mood for any explanations.

They stood in silence, eyes locked in the mute duel, until Genesis averted his gaze. Sephiroth expected mockery, eagerness to comply, but not seeing the redhead's face suddenly contorted with genuine emotions.

"I admit I was wrong about you."

Sephiroth frowned. He did not understand. "It no longer matters," yet the deep voice softened a bit.

Genesis tossed his head and boldly met his eyes.

"Then let me put it differently. I don't wish to go like that."

"Why? I thought you wanted freedom."

"I did. I do." Long fingers absently twiddled with the wooden sliver. He seemed uncertain about what to say. "Remember, you asked why I decided to oppose the Church."

A smirk found its way on thin lips involuntarily, the first expression of emotions he allowed himself during the whole conversation.

"It couldn't be anything besides petty vengeance. Or, perhaps, if you just wanted to become the 'modern Herostratus'."

"Petty vengeance, you say?" The redhead clenched his fists, forgetting himself in anger. "Indeed, vengeance is just a hollow word until you understand what hatred is."

The silver-haired knight sighed.

"Tell me then."

Genesis declined his head on his breast. It was obvious he didn't want to speak, yet made himself continue, in suddenly quiet trembling voice Sephiroth has never heard coming from those eloquent lush lips before. More than that he never suspected the redhead could be so genuine.

"They, Inquisitors and clergy, burnt my mother and made me watch every moment of the execution." Genesis stooped turned around to face the empty wall. "Then they exhumed my father's corpse and burnt it as well, all for the sole reason of us having different beliefs in the same God. Of all reasons, she died for such nonsense and blindness. I was seven then, slowly descending into insanity from the nightmares the vision of auto-da-fe scorched in my mind. Then I became one of them, because if I wanted revenge I had to strike the blow from within. I learned to control my madness, but it didn't change one thing. I was dead, a dead child, with hatred instead of parent's love and monastic cells to live in instead of home."

Sephiroth felt a lump forming in his throat, not truly realizing what he has just heard and how it was spoken. Circling the redhead, the knight looked at his face, suddenly all calm, angelic, smooth as sea waters before the storm, already knowing what he'd see. Silent tears were streaming down goldish cheeks, azure eyes distant as though Genesis was not here, in the room with him. Melodic voice, thick with emotion, was still speaking on its own accord. "You met a dead husk, a walking frame. My vengeance is endless as stars in the sky. Yet you showed me I did not perish and the last spark of life might still kindle a flame."

Genesis blinked, and a diamond tear rolled out of sparkling sapphire eyes before he staggered and slumped into the chair.

Sephiroth froze, motionless, with only one thought in his head, making his heart bleed.

Even porcelain dolls can cry.

For a while they stood in silence, then Genesis straightened, lifted his sparkling eyes to him and demanded, resorting to his previous arrogant self.

"Kiss me."

The knight slipped into his chair and extended his hand with uncertainty, running his fingers along Genesis' damp cheek in a gesture of comfort he was not used to offering - he did not even remember the last time he had to offer it to anyone, even less so to the stranger. Or was the redhead really _just_ a stranger now? Genesis' skin was warm, tears were cool.

"All the same, you will have to go." He whispered softly.

"I know and I will. It doesn't mean we can't meet."

"It doesn't," he agreed, taking Genesis' cold fingers and smothering slightly trembling lush lips with feather light kisses.

When Sephiroth fell asleep, Genesis lay curled up by his side, fully dressed, in a chaste embrace with his head on the knight's chest and dim hair scattered on his nightshirt. Sephiroth felt the redhead's refined chin between long fingers and warmth, soft and vulnerable, as that of a child. After all, underneath layers of shields, cruelty and masks Genesis was a child as before, who missed his mother and desperately ran from the nightmares of his childhood.

He's never had a mother, and Genesis was bereaved of one. Perhaps, there were a lot more similarities between them than first met the eye.

It didn't change much.

…When the dawn barely began breaking, frozen and with a heavy heart, Sephiroth stood by the window in his bedchamber, thoughtfully watching as two lone horsemen disappeared in thick predawn mist.

Between duty and vain pleasure he always chose duty.

Yet what if now he felt something more than a desire for simple pleasure?

* * *

A/N: ** As you all have guessed by now, Marguerite and Louis I are real personalities. They got married in 1320, when Marguerite was just 10 years old, which was perfectly fine by medieval standards.


	9. Chapter VIII: Duty and pleasure, part II

_A/N: _Since Sphinx asked, the sword I described is real. (I LOVE flamboyant swords, but since Sephy uses a shield and a blade, his weapon could not be a two-handled flame-bladed sword, thus I needed something else, so I took a German early 16th cent. one as a prototype). If someone else besides Sphinx wants a pic – send a PM or an e-mail :)

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Sorbonne_ – or Collège de Sorbonne (aka University of Paris), was founded in 1253 by Robert de Sorbon.

* * *

_**Chapter VIII.**_

_**Duty and pleasure.**_

_**Part II.**_

"_They, Inquisitors and clergy, burnt my mother and made me watch every moment of the execution__."_

Sephiroth absent-mindedly reclined on the back of his chair, thoughts and mind on Genesis' words spoken the day before, oblivious of the Count speaking. It was one of the family's peaceful evenings; dying embers in a huge fireplace wrought their fluttering shadows upon the floor, reminding him of the night merely days ago when he sat in his bedchamber, dining and speaking to Genesis. Kissing Genesis. His stepfather talked, his words animated and loud as usual (after all, he was not a peer for nothing), Marguerite knitted a quilt, rarely bunging words in, and he simply listened, listened and thought, and learned.

Sephiroth tried to imagine what it could be like, watching his stepmother burn, but couldn't. He saw villages and homes aflame, he saw war and ugliness it carried, yet more or less it reminded him of a spontaneous, elemental mayhem. He could be cold and cruel when life demanded so, but there was a difference between a calculated choice and blind faith of a fanatic.

"… mind you, Paris is the heart of France." His stepfather's words finally reached his ears, tearing him away from a rather painful contemplation. Talking to Genesis, the silver-haired knight felt like touching a never-healing bleeding wound. "Of all cities and places I've been to, none seemed as opulent, and none of their riches could be compared to the bold beauty of the Notre Dame, to all mysteries of the old tour de Nesle, to the fame of Sorbonne." Louis turned to face Sephiroth. "Pride, my son, is what makes us Frenchmen."

"Pride," the silver-haired viscount mused in response, "is what makes us knights."

His stepfather chuckled.

"Your mother told me there was an incident at Estrees while I was gone."

Sephiroth slightly tensed, casting a quick glance at Marguerite, who seemed engrossed in knitting, yet outwardly nothing changed on his marble face.

"There was. A false prophet caused a minor uprising, which resulted in a burnt church. I attended to it personally."

"A false prophet?" Louis' face darkened. "I hope he didn't escape."

Marguerite's melodious voice chimed in, not that he thought his stepmother would just let go of the matter.

"He is in prison, awaiting…"

"Not any more," Sephiroth interjected coolly. "I took him to the nearby forest and hung him."

"It was a very wise choice, my son." His stepfather visibly relaxed. "Scumbags shouldn't be granted mercy otherwise this country would have fallen into chaos a long time ago."

Emerald eyes flashed; Sephiroth disliked the only notion of calling Genesis a scumbag, and the next words had passed his lips before he realized who he was defending and why.

"Every false prophet has his reasons, father."

Marguerite tore herself away from knitting the quilt with a yellow lion.

"Justice," the Count observed sternly, "died with Jacques de Molay. Philip had his reasons to annihilate the Templar Order, and believe me, justice was the least of them."

Unnoticeably Sephiroth took a deep breath to calm down, a thought flashing in the back of his mind again and again. Why was Genesis and his world-views affecting him that much?

"You are right, father. The prophet is dead, so the matter is no longer worth talking about." The Count nodded with approval. Sephiroth glanced at Marguerite, by the look on her face judging that she, on the other hand, was not satisfied with his answer. So he added dryly. "Did you want to say something, mother?"

Louis turned his eyes to Marguerite's face, then back to the silver-haired viscount, suddenly suspicious, but his stepmother's face relaxed in a pleasant smile flashed at her husband.

"I didn't want to add anything, darling. I am just a woman and wars are for men to fight."

Sephiroth shook his head, rising and wishing his stepparents a good sleep under the peering look of the Count, and took his leave. He didn't know whether his stepfather suspected him of being involved with his wife or just her of being _unmotherly_ attracted to her stepson; the knight was tired of these intrigues, which seemed worthless and petty. Alber waited for him as always, outside the hall, to escort to the bedchamber and perform usual duties. Sephiroth saw what question hid in hazel depths every time his squire's innocent yet gimlet eyes fell on his face, a question about Genesis' fate, for all that knowing that it will never be spoken aloud.

Such loyalty does not ask questions.

…His room and the adjoined one were empty, the hollow subtly gnawing at his heart. He got used to Genesis' presence, although it's been barely more than a week since they've met. With the redhead Sephiroth felt differently, the versatility of that difference escaping him until the fake monk had to leave.

"Messire, I have a message for you."

Sudden unexpected words took him unawares. Sephiroth turned to face his squire, seeing that same question in his eyes and, intrigued, extended his hand to take a piece of parchment with no seals on it.

"You may go, Alber," barely glancing at the youth, the viscount unfolded the letter. Frowning, he read a short message in Latin, which most, including his stepmother, didn't understand, and cast a glance at the sketched map.

His heart skipped a beat. It was from Genesis. The redhead wanted to meet in a desolated hut; he knew its location from the times his stepfather took him to a hunting divertissement. The hut was built for the sole reason of serving as a roof for one night, should any of the participants get lost and injured. The knight would have never thought of it on his own, but the place was perfect.

The moment he received the message, Sephiroth knew he would go.

Throwing a dark cloak over his shoulders and grabbing his bastard sword, the silver-haired viscount slipped out of his room and headed for the stables; he decided to leave Alber in the castle.

This way, servants and his stepparents could only suspect he was having a brief affair with a peasant girl.

* * *

Genesis tied his horse to a trunk and looked around, peering through the looming trees to make sure he wasn't followed. The dark wall of a forest stood silently, nature's stillness disturbed by a hooting owl or the flapping of dozens of wings. Satisfied, he opened a creaking wooden door. The hut was small and dusty, but he's been to worse places. Wan light, oozed by the nearly shrouded sun, revealed a small fireplace, covered in cobwebs. After having lighted a fire with a flint, the redhead took a seat on the chair and froze.

He was left with waiting.

What were the odds that he was making a fool of himself and the knight wouldn't show up? Genesis didn't wish to think about it.

Sephiroth will come.

The redhead felt strange excitement, unknown to him before. The knight proved to be the only person he was ever so drawn to, captivated by his demeanor, by inscrutable feeling of completion that crept over him in the latter's presence.

The knight was the first person, to whom he confessed being maimed in his childhood and got the feeling of understanding.

Together they could raze mountains.

Thereat Sephiroth had to come.

As though reflecting his thoughts, the horse neighed, alerting him to someone else's presence. Genesis made a reach for the dagger that usually hung on his belt, yet found only emptiness, forgetting about losing all possessions during the flight at Crecy. The next moment a familiar silver and black silhouette stole up through the entrance door; hood fell, removed in a swift gesture, and waves of moonlight silver scattered over broad shoulders.

Genesis crossed his legs and, feeling greatly pleased with himself, which undoubtedly showed on his angelic features, relaxed in the chair.

"It looks like you were expecting me to come," instead of greeting him, Sephiroth remarked with the lightest smirk on thin lips.

Genesis mirrored the knight's expression: "I was. Or would you say that the interest wasn't mutual?"

The silver-haired viscount rid himself of the outerwear, placed his sword by the wall, every gesture deliberately slow, and only then gave a reply, a typically his, nonchalant one.

"When we parted I didn't think we'd meet this soon."

Genesis was enjoying every moment and the irony it embodied. They both knew what they wanted; they both knew how the night would turn out, yet none was willing to cross the boundary first.

"Strike when the iron's hot," the redhead purred, watching how emerald eyes widened ever so slightly. "Isn't it how they say nowadays?"

"Were you pining over me?" Was it teasing?

"That would be a hasty, implicit assumption," Genesis shook his luxuriant auburn hair, "but I have to admit we left a certain matter unfinished and, perhaps, another one to begin."

The knight seemed different outside his castle, as Genesis suspected, more relaxed, less doubtful, yet hardly any more willing to give in his control. The game had to be played by his rules or not played at all.

"Perhaps," the deep voice suggested curtly and Sephiroth resumed watching him with wan verdant flames, kindling in the almond-shaped eyes. They reminded Genesis of something… someone, yet the reminiscent feature was so vague the redhead could not say where or when he's seen its holder before.

"Tell me why you came then."

His words seemed to have brought the knight into slight confusion, which he, chuckling, dismissed.

"You win," it provoked Genesis to smile, the velvety masterful notes in the deep voice causing pleasantly crawling pricks to appear under his skin. "I wanted to see you."

That was better. Much better.

Likely, it was time to introduce his rules.

The redhead rose, in an unnoticeable feline movement slipping through the wan crimson shadows and seating himself on the bed. The loose undershirt came off easily, candidly exposing his chiseled torso – he wasn't _just_ a monk, after all – to the flashing emerald eyes. Goose bumps crept up his spine and not only because of the faint draft that cooled his skin. The rest of the slough followed next, discarded swiftly and adroitly. Genesis had nothing to be ashamed of.

"I guess we have something in common," it was hard to speak in a carefree manner, his melodic voice turning slightly hoarse.

Even lying naked in front of the knight aroused him.

His head gracefully reclined onto the back of the chair, through scattered silver tresses Sephiroth was avidly gazing at him, each single one of Genesis' gestures traced with glowing green eyes, bright as will-o'-the-wisps in darkness. Yet he was so reserved in everything that any sign of interest, let alone desire, seemed profoundly hidden behind the flawless restraint.

It was not enough to fool Genesis; he could sense it, the want, the craving, the darkness, nearly bestial, and was determined to unleash it all.

Slender hand casually brushed the bedside in a gesture of an obvious invitation. His game. Sephiroth will have to join in and he did, rising and slowly approaching the bed in the veil of floating silver. The redhead licked his dry lips, anticipation growing stronger and more evident; he almost lost it there and then as the wooden bedside creaked, the silver-haired knight reposed himself by his side and, still willing to comply with Genesis' rules, raised himself on the elbow. Their eyes met, an ardent gaze of emerald ones with sapphire, crimson tinged, blueness, lingering, drowning in each other's intangible depths. The knight's gaze never shifted lower, as though the redhead wasn't lying at arm's length, completely unclothed, an epitome of venereal beauty.

"You will have to try a little harder to persuade me."

Genesis unnoticeably shivered from the sensation their proximity stirred in him, yet the replica called forth a sly smirk. Long fingers reached for the laces of the flaxen shirt, slowly loosening them until the cloth freely slid down, baring the fine curve of his soon to be lover's shoulders. Eyes were still locked, gestures calm, breaths controlled, although Genesis was beginning to doubt his self-mastery. The knight's presence, the otherworldly beauty, seeming indifference and cold composure enthralled beyond the presence of the God himself. Pushing Sephiroth's legs apart, the redhead slipped one in between, leaning into slender thighs with pressure; bare skin brushing against cloth, Genesis felt the shiver, the response, hard between his legs. Strong palm settled on Genesis' thigh, jerking him even closer into refined curves of muscles.

"Is it hard enough?" The rhythm of his breath was loosing its steadiness.

Sephiroth didn't say a word as lips leeched onto lips, clinging with more ardor than caress, with more craving than tenderness; one strong arm twined around his neck, the other slid lower, stroking his haunch and loins, causing him to lose breath yet again and bite at the tongue, invading his mouth. Soft opulent silver tickled his bare skin, pushing his already diminishing restraint to the edge. Unwilling to break away Genesis hastily removed last layers that separated them, craving to feel finesse of immaculate skin instead of the roughness of flax. Sephiroth leaned all his weight upon him, trapping between his thighs; Genesis arched back, freeing his lips and, while his lover slid lower, mantling his nipple with supple warm tongue, drew forward to smother the elegant crook of alabaster neck with impatient kisses.

With quickened breaths on the brink of turning into moans, with less controlled abrupt moves and rapid pulse the animal was waking.

Genesis moaned, responding to yet another bite on his overly sensitive nipple, to yet another rub of sensitive skin by wrapping his hand around the other's waist and slipping his fingers into the scorching moisture, deeply, slowly and with undue tenderness.

It provoked a low growl from the silver-haired beast on top of him, which would give rise to sheer amusement if he wasn't so aroused. Sephiroth could not control himself any longer - or preferred not to. Strong palms settled on his knees, jerking them apart, and his lover plunged deeply into his heated body without mercy. Genesis cried out in pain, rising on his elbows to capture the kiss-swollen lips and, as Sephiroth deepened and hastened his shrewd thrusts, tried to adjust to the knight's demanding pace the latter maintained as if deliberately oblivious of the redhead's slight discomfort. Yet, soon the feeling of awkwardness passed.

Strong, strained bodies entwined, joined so closely they seemed one instead of two. Whelmed with his lover, the redhead moaned, hoarse sounds becoming quicker, louder, more and more fervent and then there was bliss. And then there was sensation of utter completeness and weightlessness.

Genesis lay, breathing heavily, shivering, satiated and wasted from repletion of his desire. Sephiroth reposed himself by his side, pale skin glistening from sweat in faint moonlight. It was hard to tell how much satisfaction his new-found lover felt - from the look on his face it was but another routine encounter. It bothered Genesis, and at the same time he was too tired to be truly bothered.

The redhead didn't want to move, even as his lover's fingers began to slide along his forearm in an absent-minded caress.

"Was morale the boundary that kept you from getting involved with me?" The redhead breathed out, yet never received a straight answer.

"Morale and ethics set us apart from animals," Sephiroth whispered thoughtfully, catching his breath.

This time Genesis smiled, and there was no emptiness in his smile.

"Or, perhaps, morale and ethics simply conceal animals within us."

… When they fell asleep, wrapped in the knight's dark cloak and in each other's arms, last thing Genesis noticed was how silver hair spread over the smooth pale cheek, taking a shape of a haughty wingspan.

Sephiroth left Genesis at dawn and returned to the castle to be met by sleepy Marguerite, who asked where he's spent the night at. His answer was a curt excuse about the delicate matters, leaving his stepmother guessing whether he indeed took a peasant mistress.

In his bed, alone, viscount quickly fell asleep again, with a wan smile on thin lips.

For once it felt good, not having to choose between duty and pleasure.


	10. Chapter IX: Son and lover

_A/N: __**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Peregrinationes primariae (lat) – _the great pilgrimage.

_Deo gratias (lat.)_ - thanks to God.

_Roger Bacon_ – yet another famous medieval theologian and scientist.

_Deus vobiscum (lat.)_ - God be with you.

_Dei gratia (lat.)_ - by the grace of God.

_Pax vobiscum_ (lat.) - peace be with you.

* * *

_**Chapter IX.**_

_**Son and lover.**_

_"A woman, having lost her virtue, will hesitate at nothing." (Tacitus)._

Sephiroth lazily half-opened his emerald eyes to watch Genesis' auburn head resting on his bare chest through narrow slits. Any light in the hut died out hours ago, leaving only silvery rays quietly slipping through the narrow window to peek at two lovers, lying on the narrow bed joined in an unchaste embrace. It was the only silent witness of a nefarious adultery doomed to die with the breaking dawn. Small hut hid in the nebulous night, a dwelling of a pilgrim or a hermit to a lone passerby or horseman.

The warm summer night reigned masterfully over nature; it might have been the small hours of the morning, the only noisemaker disturbing perfect stillness being a nightingale twittering its lovely song somewhere in the thicket.

"Genesis, I missed a shrift this month," the silver-haired knight whispered, knowing the redhead wasn't asleep. The auburn head rose, and with his chin pressed against chiselled chest his lover whispered back.

"Is it truly bothering you?" Then Genesis must have noticed he wasn't serious, for azure eyes got a playful glint and a smirk curled his sensual lips. "Did you come to me for a confession?"

Sephiroth absently passed his hand over his lover's smooth shoulder, falling into a reverie for an instant.

Their affair began over a month ago; during the days he performed his duties and at nights met with Genesis. It appeared even in the hut they could indulge themselves in numerous ways, playing chess naked, drowning in forbidden pleasures, or being carried away in a challenging discussion. Genesis proved to be a shrine to lore, contriving to bewilder him on occasions.

During the day they didn't know each other, lived different lives and pursued separate goals, yet at nights they were as one. He knew it would have to change, nevertheless suspended the final judgement day after day. The viscount didn't know what could be done and was glad the redhead never asked. Yet.

Sephiroth dismissed the thoughts, all too willing to engage into their usual word play.

"I have gone astray, father."

"Tell me more, my child." Genesis plunged his hand into silver hair and twined a shimmering lock around his finger.

"Where should I start?" Sephiroth thoughtfully hemmed, then smirked, teasing. "I have sinned with a certain redheaded monk."

Genesis uttered a sweet quiet laugh.

"Desecration of clergy is indeed a fall too deep to forgive. You should repent, punish yourself and donate half of your feud to the church."

"But I am a poor man, father."

Genesis drew forward, tenderly cupping his face and smothering his lips in playful light kisses. The tart scent of his lover's warm body tickled his senses.

"Fortunately for you God is kind and forgiving today."

"That is not the God my Franciscan chaplain usually talked about."

His lover froze in his caress.

"I met a Franciscan during my _peregrinationes primariae_ to the Holy Land, and such a poor naïve soul he was. Too sweet. Too young. He was heading to Palestine to preach and convert the infidels, a blind follower of Roger Bacon's ideas." Genesis' mood changed in a blink, as it did all the time, from placidity to passionate hatred, angelic face contorted by a devilish grimace. "I destroyed him, his faith, his little devout world in a week of our travels. He never got to the Holy Sepulchre, killed himself in the desert."

Genesis abruptly freed himself from the knight's embrace, sat up on the bedside with his back to him, tensed as a bow string. It wasn't his intention to bring unpleasant and agonizing memories yet that, to his dissatisfaction, he did. Sephiroth gingerly mirrored his lover's pose, gently running his palm along the strained back in a soothing gesture. Feeling the redhead relaxed, the silver-haired knight twined his arms around the latter's seemingly frail shoulders and whispered into his ear.

"I never thought you were the pious type."

Genesis drew in a deep breath, scoffing, which was a sign that the storm, short and volatile this time, has blown over.

"Curiosity, Sephiroth, mere curiosity brought me to the Tomb of Christ." The redhead let himself to be lowered back onto the sheets. "I wanted answers to my endless questions and corroboration to doubts."

Genesis lapsed into silence, cerulean eyes absently watching the path of moonlight in the narrow window.

Sephiroth has never been to other places but France and, feeling the need to divert the subject from Genesis' childhood memories, inquisitively asked.

"Tell me about Palestine."

"Palestine is the land of sands, pilgrims and Bedouins." Genesis took his hand and gently passed it over the long scar on his thigh, one of many that marred his smooth goldish skin. Sephiroth stroked the coarse mark, provoking a half heavenly, half ironic smile from his redheaded lover. "This is its gift to such a blasphemer as myself. Furthermore it is the land of heat, disease and zealous Muslims." He softly snorted. "Those barbarians caught me once. Their ringleader wanted to cut my tongue out, finding my mouth too foul for his liking."

Anew Sephiroth's long fingers found the scar by feeling and an unfamiliar anger rose in his chest. It he was to meet any of those culprits, responsible for inflicting Genesis pain, he would have mercilessly slain them.

"What happened?" He enquired darkly.

Genesis raised himself on both palms, leaving every haughty curve of his naked body lavishly exposed to his eyes in a caress of wan silvery light.

"And what do you think had happened?" Ariose voice reminded him of a feline purr. "He dragged me out of the tent, but, deo gratias, decided to revel in pleasures first to hear me screaming. I played up to him ever so slightly that he's never seen it coming. He, on the other hand, never screamed." Soft mellow lips slid between his, enveloping them in a long patient kiss, after which the redhead finished. "Fanatical faith often conceals the void, the lack of any other content."

Before the viscount could object his lover deepened the kiss, leaning into his naked body, smooth goldish skin flushed and each muscle strained, slowly dragging him into the sinful depths of pleasure he's never known before. Every move of Genesis' body sirenized by its angelic grace, as it was sliding against him, hot and bewitching like tenuous tongues of scarlet flames.

Sephiroth swiftly cast the cloak to the side and tightly wrapped his hands around the slim waist to feel every time the redhead missed his breath as thin lips were slowly exploring his lover's skin, inch by inch, tracing each scar with the tongue; to breathe in and share acute moans, wrung from soft, blooming with plush colour from his intense kisses, lips each time his hand passed over his lover's heated flesh in a rough yet slow foreplay.

The silver-haired knight let the passion take over him without any doubts, yet one importunate painful question was there, still, always.

Could he… should he trust Genesis that much?

Sephiroth left his lover at dawn. The chestnut obediently waited for him tied to a trunk of a nearby tree. The silver-haired knight gracefully flung himself into the saddle, grabbed the reign tightly and urged his mount along the familiar path to the castle. He's been taking this road for the last month, to the hut and back, nearly every day repeating the same routine.

The narrow pathway led him to the drawbridge without any unpleasant accidents. The sentries got used to his night outings and without a single question opened the gates.

Alber was still asleep so the knight decided not to disturb his young squire for no good reason and unsaddled the chestnut he's been using in peaceful times by himself. The horse gratefully snickered and began chewing onto the pile of fresh hay. Sephiroth fondly ran his hand along the neck of the noble animal, calling forth another sniff.

When he finally left the stables and headed for his bedchamber the sky turned light blue, as clear rivers of Paradise, with the sun hidden somewhere behind the outer wall.

To his surprise Marguerite was nowhere to be seen. She wasn't waiting for him in the hall or in his bedroom. The silver-haired knight briefly saw his stepmother during the breakfast, however she, pleading a headache, left before he even started the second course. The Count was again absent for a day, spending his time with Lorenzo in Nevers to prepare for the arrival of his vassals which was due in late July.

Sephiroth noticed that as of lately his stepmother gave up on trying to find out where he's been spending all these nights at, especially after a brief incident with the tail she sent after him. The viscount was not a tyro at faulting the undesired pursuers, and his stepfather's vassals returned to the castle empty-handed. Although the latter changes stirred relief in him, the knight remained as vigilant as ever.

Nevertheless he never saw what was coming.

* * *

Twofold steps were barely heard, as two shadows walked along the parapeted wall, wide enough to fit two armored knights standing side by side. One of them belonged to a middle-aged sharp-visaged man dressed in luxurious velvet cotardie, the other – to a taller, younger interlocutor. The most memorable features about him were his silver waist-length hair and cold lustrous eyes of rare emerald color.

The Count and his stepson were performing their routine inspections of the fortification.

"I have a gift for you, Sephiroth," Louis addressed his interlocutor with his arms crossed behind his back. Seeing that the viscount was attentively listening, he continued. "I saw you took interest in a flamboyant sword so I returned the one you bought and had one ordered especially for you; with your height and strength this brand should be perfect."

Sephiroth looked at the evening sky, veiled in light crimson mist, and then dropped his eyes to the village that took shelter by the stone walls of the castle Thil. His stepfather rarely graced him with any gifts, yet each time they were of the kind he greatly appreciated.

"Thank you, father."

The Count exclaimed with a chuckle.

"Dei gratia_,_ my son, make good use of it on the battlefield and nothing would make me happier!"

Sephiroth looked straight into his father's eyes.

"When will the campaign begin?"

Louis' face turned serious, thoughtful.

"His Majesty thinks of August, but until we know more of the intentions of that English bastard, we are helpless and blind." He slammed the wall with his palm, a sign he could not control his anger. "I received a letter from Paris yesterday, second this week. Edward burnt another city in Normandy."

"Yet we are sitting here walled up in this castle," Sephiroth couldn't hide his indignation.

"Not for long, my son," his stepfather's eyes got a predatory gleam, "I promise you."

Steps carried them to the bridgehead where a detachment of sentries was posted. Upon seeing the Count and his stepson approaching, their cheerful loud conversation grew silent.

"All's quiet, messire," one of the sentries reported with a bow, a deep one yet with no humiliating cajolery.

"Good, continue your vigil."

They went past the group of men who resumed their talk, followed by feeble vulgar jokes about maids and cooks. Their round was done. Sephiroth wanted to ask about Marguerite and why she's been avoiding him lately, yet thought better of it. The subject was touchy enough without speaking.

"Deus vobiscum, father_._"

The Count smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Go and rest, son. Today we had a long day and those will only get longer, as my faithful vassals will be arriving."

Sephiroth did as his father told him; this night he was supposed to meet his lover in the hut, so the silver-haired knight headed straightly for his bedchamber.

His stepfather's gift was waiting for him there.

Lying on the bed, unwrapped from layers of green cloth, it looked like a silvery lightning, frozen and caged in steel. Emerald eyes slowly skimmed along the double-edged blade, which curved into a flamboyant pattern towards the end, long fingers touched the crucifix handle, circled it with force. Sephiroth lifted the sword with habitual ease, performed a quick 'attritor', enjoying the feeling of perfect balance. It looked deadly, it sounded deadly, lightning and whiz, as the blade cleaved the air. It was indeed a masterpiece.

The silver-haired viscount placed the bastard sword back and carefully wrapped it in green cloth to put away. Its time has not yet come. He picked up his regular blade instead and as per usual threw a dark cloak with deep hood over his shoulders.

Sephrioth left Chateau de Thil in half an hour, unaware of the pair of opal eyes, watching him from the lancet window of the donjon.

* * *

"Thank you for coming, father."

The man was cheerfully chattering for the last hour, from the moment Genesis stepped over the threshold of his house to the very moment he rose to leave. His wife has just delivered a baby and the man's happiness seemed to have known no end. On the other hand the redhead was glad to get out of the house, for his head was beginning to ache from the phrase-mongering of this ignorant commoner; he even let the poor merchant squeeze his hand for the last time.

"Pax vobiscum, my child." The sweetest smile on rich lips was dripping honey as the redhead swiftly descended wooden stairs and vanished in the night.

Genesis had no desire to ask his lover for money, and the only way to survive he saw was in resuming his pretence as a faithful Dominican brother, and duties thereof included baptizing newborn children and hearing out deathbed confessions.

The dank wind brought the smell of sewage and summer flowers. Wrapping himself tighter into the white cassock, the redhead quickened his pace, turning to the narrow dirty street, connecting the church and the market square where he found a cheap enough tavern to stay at. From somewhere dogs bayed in a dirge-like chorus.

It felt as a touch of wind to his cheek, as the flutter of butterfly wings, yet the next moment Genesis dashed into the aperture between two houses, silently cursing himself for obliviousness and carelessness. He forgot to buy a dagger.

Someone was following him, persistently and ably. Two shadows disappeared the moment the redhead turned and took a closer look at them. The dark street behind him was empty, raising questions of whether it was a delusion or a real shadowing. Genesis' heart sank as he reached for the sliver in his new cassock.

It couldn't be madness. He's been seeing them for three days.

* * *

Sephiroth spread his long legs towards the warm fire (at times it had to be lit even in summer with all the strong drafts in the castle) and resumed his reading. This time it was a book on English warfare by a Scottish witness of the border skirmishes, his name of little repute, between French nobles, at any rate. He wasn't meeting his lover this evening and decided to dedicate it to the study of enemy's tactics, noticing how more and more often the Scottish writer mentioned their long bows, the same bows which were rumored to wreak havoc among French sailors in the Battle of Sluys.

Just as he was flipping the page, the door creaked. He lifted his head to the faint sound in time to see Marguerite entering through the chink. Her coming couldn't be of any good omen, especially since his stepmother was deliberately avoiding him for the last couple of weeks.

With a deep frown on the flawless forehead Sephiroth immediately noticed something was wrong in a way his stepmother walked, in a way her wavy hair was disorderly scattered on her shoulders and dark brown dress unlaced on her chest. She was drunk.

Frozen, the knight watched her with apprehension, as she neared, wobbling, and leaned against the wooden pillars of his bed for support.

"Sephiroth," a forced smile didn't brighten up her tired face.

"What's wrong, mother? You look pale." He asked, genuinely concerned. It' been a while, if ever, since he's seen her in such state.

She made a reach to take his hand but missed as he unnoticeably shifted in the chair.

"Sephiroth, don't act like you've never thought of us."

He sighed, declining his head onto his chest and folding his arms. He should have seen this coming.

"No, I haven't. You are my mother." He replied quietly yet with enough coldness to freeze a goblet of water.

Pain dimmed her opal eyes.

"What do you see in them, in those young bashful children of foul heritage, that you can't find in me, a true descendant of king's pure blood?" She was speaking with more fervor now, melodious voice trembling. Despair? Anger?

The silver-haired knight couldn't tell, bewildered, not knowing what he should say, besides: "Mother, I should ask you to leave. You are drunk and you don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh, I know exactly what I am talking about," she objected bitterly, not letting him take her wrist and bundle out of the bedchamber. "I've watched you change, day by day, this past month. Tell me, you fell in love, didn't you?"

Sephiroth was silent, his face a stone mask. He hasn't thought of his feelings for Genesis, and it certainly wasn't the time for contemplation, yet his stepmother's words touched a sensitive chord.

"For God's sake," Marguerite exclaimed louder, on the brink of going off into hysterics upon seeing his deadpan expression, "tell me, break my heart! I wish… I need to know!"

The silver-haired viscount unclenched his fists, giving his stepmother a continuous stare. It was madness.

"Tell me her name!"

Her yell grated on Sephiroth's ears, helping him out of confusion.

"You understood it all wrong, mother. I shall send for the Count at once."

The book he was reading fell onto the floor as he resolutely rose, determined to put an end to this conversation which reeked of more trouble.

"I loved you all my life, from the moment I saw you in the church, walking down the aisle towards my future husband, and you'll turn your back on me like that?" Suddenly quiet agonizing words made him freeze on the spot half way between his bed and a door.

God was his witness, he didn't want it to come to this, but Marguerite left him no choice.

"I am sorry, mother," looking over his shoulder, Sephiroth whispered gently, "I never shared your feelings."

"Sephiroth, please," she begged, clutching the wooden pillars. "Haven't I suffered enough?"

He shook his head, nearing her anew.

"I never meant to cause you pain, but what you are asking of me is impossible." He took her hand, pronouncing the words with as much conviction as he could. She had to understand; even if he didn't have Genesis and knew his stepmother loved him, his answer would have been the same. This time Marguerite didn't object, just flinched. "Let me help you get to your bedchamber and call your maid."

She leaned into him, stooping, her whole body trembling and he felt hot tears dripping on his hand.

"Why did you deny me? Was it only because I am married? But you understand nothing, my poor, poor child," her words were interrupted with desperate sobs; Marguerite suddenly staggered and flapped down on her knees before he could offer more support. Sephiroth's heart skipped a beat, wrung with ill omen. "You don't understand what I have done for you, for us. Joan de Bloy, your first wife," she raised her head, looking at him with burning tearful eyes, humiliated, brought to her knees, her beauty frightening like this with the sheens of fatality and macabre sublimity thrown over it. "I poisoned her and would have poisoned any other girl if you remarried."

Sephiroth visibly paled, involuntarily recoiling from Marguerite. Momentarily a flicker of anger flared in bright emerald eyes, replaced by expression of disgust he couldn't hide.

"She was just fourteen, and how old were you? Sixteen? Seventeen?." The viscount uttered coldly, getting his composure back with effort. "You are a fool, mother."

"Don't call me a fool. I love you!" Pitiful, broken voice. He was already walking away, leaving her by the dimming fire, wailing, in the heap of dark brown cloth scattered on the floor. "In the name of the Lord, Sephiroth, please, come back!" The last shriek he heard blended with the loud thud of the closing door.

The world was tumbling down into hell. His stepmother turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer; even despite of what he had done, it wasn't a revelation he was keen on making any time in his lifetime. He could understand Genesis, or at least thought he could. The redhead was cruelly maimed in his childhood, yet his stepmother killed out of the strange obsession she called _love_.

How could he trust any of them?

Alber tried to call out for him but he didn't even halt to answer. First Sephiroth's desire was to go and tell the Count but it would have done no good to any of them. Instead, with as much strength to keep his gestures calm as he could muster up, the silver-haired knight descended the stairs, which seemed endless this time. Servants and sentries followed him with their eyes. Some of his tumult must have shown. The groom understood his restrained gesture without words, leading the saddled chestnut out of the stables.

He needed time alone.

The horse neighed as Sephiroth sharply dug his heels into its sides and firmly gripped the rein, urging the steed towards the familiar pathway in the woods. A silver spark in murrey dusk, he swept by unsuspecting sentry, hoofbeat blending with the hiss of the wind in his ears. The viscount scurried towards the tall wall of the dark forest, craving that the speed of his flight would alleviate the ire and deafen the numerous poignant questions that supplanted other coherent thoughts.

What did he do wrong? What did he overlook? How could he not understand what his stepmother wanted and did from the very moment Joan's pale girlish face disappeared in the grave? And what angered him more: the knowledge that his Marguerite was a murderer or a simple fact that he was lied to this whole time, notwithstanding his acumen and intelligence?

Fingers seized the bit, wind scattered silver hair as an unearthly halo over the haughty frame. The knight was flitting by silent trees with newborn stars and moon, lighting up his way. He wished to spend the night anywhere but under the same roof with his stepmother.

...He caught sight of the candle-lit windows through the trees, knowing that Genesis was there even before dashing into the small hut. The knight must have surprised his redheaded lover for he toppled the ink onto the floor and dropped a goose quill at the sound of the slammed door.

For the first time since their affair began Sephiroth wished Genesis had decided to spend the night elsewhere.

"Genesis," he breathed out his cold greeting, tossing his sword aside and slumping onto the bed.

"I wasn't expecting you today. Not that I mind." The redhead put aside the notes he was taking on the parchment and hurled the empty ink bottle with his foot. "Yet judging by the look on your face I could tell something had happened."

Sephiroth gave him a piercing glance, suppressing a sudden desire to scoff shrewdly. Something had happened. His stepmother confessed her love by killing his first wife. The intrigues were so tiresome, bogging him in the morass of their pettiness even as he craved to avoid taking any part in them. Every gesture, every smile, hint, nod seemed a lie. Sephiroth closed his eyes, stretching himself on the bed and crossing his arms under his head.

"I do not wish to speak about it." The deep voice rang icily.

The bedside creaked as Genesis took a seat by his side.

"I told you about my mother," his melodic voice was soft, fingers running through silver tresses framing his face.

Emerald eyes fluttered open, dark from anger.

"Would you wish to talk about it if your mother were a foolish, worthless woman?" Bitter words passed his lips as icicles, breaking into myriads of sharp shards, and he lapsed into silence again, watching everything but Genesis' face.

It hurt and vexed, yet he couldn't truly trust his redheaded lover.

"Fine, let it be your way." Genesis rose, depriving him of the caress. The viscount heard a carefully hidden resentment in the smooth voice.

Silence ensued disturbed only by the faint crackling of flames and scratching of the goose quill, as the redhead presumably went back to his notes. Sephiroth wasn't watching, averting his dull emerald eyes to the wall.

The least of all he wanted pity.

* * *

The dawn found two lovers peacefully sleeping. Chance sunlight spot slipped through the opened window, landing on Genesis' cheek and waking him up. Surprised, he shook Sephiroth's shoulder and as soon as emerald eyes opened, whispered: "Don't you have to leave?"

"Not this time," his lover's deep voice replied without hesitation.

Something definitely happened in the castle and Genesis was determined to find out what.


	11. Chapter X: Shadows and rubies

_A/N:_ _**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Avignon and the Avignon papacy (1309-1377) – _French King Philip IV the Handsome forced Popes to change their residency from Rome to the city in the Southern France, Avignon.

_Panem et circenses! (lat.)_ – bread and circuses!

* * *

_**Chapter X.**_

_**Shadows and rubies.**_

"_There is no more dangerous experiment than that of undertaking to be one thing before a man's face and another behind his back." (General Robert E. Lee)._

In utter silence the monotonous scratching of the goose quill on the parchment reminded Genesis of the withering leaves, rustling in the cold autumn wind. The church library was small, walls and windows staring at each other from the sides of the narrow aisle-like room jammed with wooden shelves and desks where other monks usually sat. However, it was early evening and Genesis was in the room alone.

A huge tome lay before him, opened, as he was carefully replicating the map of Avignon to the sheet of parchment on the table top. To his left a scrap of a dirty street was seen below, messengers, peasants, and craftsmen vociferously bustling about between the horsemen. They hurried home after a day of hard work.

Genesis finished sketching the outer wall, pausing for a moment to contemplate the drawing, which was taking a lot more time to finish than he had first suspected. During this last month his plans took on a new deadlier shape. A couple of dozens of followers in the villages seemed a trifling achievement compared to what he could do now, with Sephiroth at his side.

If he ever was to beleaguer a city, the knight would prove to be an invaluably useful ally. Genesis pictured buildings engulfed in flame, helpless toppling frames veiled in cerecloth of pungent smoke, as his eyes fell onto the faithful sliver lying by his side.

He will show the world the only absolute truth, or rather lack thereof.

He will drown Avignon in blood.

With a smirk Genesis bent over the drawing, diligently tracing out each line of the fortification. Of course, Sephiroth with his experience and keen eyes would have done it faster and better, yet, he felt, it was too early to let his silver-haired lover into his plans. The thread connecting them was still too thin, unable to endure the weight of such revelations. The quill finished the wall, connecting all dots, and, feeling tired all of a sudden, Genesis put it aside. Outside the shadows gathered, presaging a warm summer night.

The redhead rose, shook down his white cassock and gathered the parchment into his knapsack. He was impatient to return to the recluse hut in the forest depths where Sephiroth waited for him, keeping vigil until he came back to their own little world he had learned to cherish. It somehow felt important, one unobtrusive day after another, to keep going back to the dwelling in search of his lover's embrace.

The church entrance was already closed, but he had a spare key, just another small advantage of his charming looks and old monks' general _affection_ towards his young likes. The key turned in the hole with effort, followed by the shrewd clang of the heavy door turning on its unoiled hinges. Genesis slipped out into the night, momentarily noting that the air was colder than he thought.

Someone was already waiting for him at a crossroads of two narrow streets underneath the jutting second floor of the hefty house, just one pursuer this time, a vague spot in the corner of his eyes. It moved when he did and halted with him, as a real shadow in the sunlit street.

The redhead shivered, either from the unpleasant odour, the vehement gust of wind or the unnoticeable constant presence of the _shadow_. He was nearly alone in the alley with his pursuer and a lone frame, withered by the corner of the lopsided hut in a desperate attempt to empty the contents of his stomach. From behind vesper bells were wafted to his ears, yet, strained and anxious, Genesis forgot to count them.

To send just one _shadow_ this time was their mistake.

Instead of turning to the torch-lit market square, Genesis bent his steps deeper into the narrow street with the veil of foul fumes hanging over it. Before the _shadow _slipped after him, the redhead hid in between two closed workshops, intently watching as the man froze in indecision just a couple of dozens of steps from his shelter. He couldn't discern the latter's face, seeing just a dark spot looming ahead.

The shadow moved towards him and Genesis stopped breathing. When the pursuer came abreast with him, the redhead made a quick step, taking the man by utter surprise, and stunned him with a quick blow. Dilated eyes flashed fear as Genesis' palms resolutely settled on his victim's neck, clutching it. Wheezing, the _shadow_ attempted to fight, yet the man's neck yielded after a blink of struggle, snapping with a detestable crunch in his ruthless fingers. The rag doll of a body hung in the redhead's arms and he gently lowered it to the ground, hastily rummaging through the deadman's pockets.

A small bag of money was moved to the redhead's knapsack together with a dagger. Finding nothing more of interest that could indicate the pursuer's intentions or master, Genesis hastily fled, vanishing in pitch-black darkness. On the market square, blending with the small crowd of slightly drunk commoners, he decided to take a closer look at the dagger.

To his utter disbelief and rage, the handle was adorned with an emblem of the Nevers' Lion, the same Lion his lover had embroidered on his cotardies.

* * *

"Care to explain this?" Genesis could barely control his temper, placing the dagger on the table by the chessboard in a swift impetuous gesture.

By the look on Sephiroth's face the redhead could tell his lover wasn't in the best mood and that incident in the castle was still bothering him, yet if anything could stop him from screaming now, it would be a lightning bolt transfixing his heart.

The knight was playing chess with himself in Genesis' absence, his cold intellect woven into patterns of subtle tactics when in distress. Slowly riveting his distant emerald eyes on the dagger, he looked perplexed with the redhead's sudden outburst. There was a pause, an instant hanging in the air, then the knight spoke.

"What kind of words are you expecting me to say, Genesis?"

"Look at the emblem!"

At first the marble face showed nothing but, as soon as he noticed the Lion, it reflected confusion.

"Where did you find this?"

"Oh, I guess I should be asking you that question!" Palms slammed against the wooden table top on both sides of the chessboard, causing little pieces to fall one after another, ruining the combination. Their faces and lips neared as though for a kiss, only Genesis was not in the mood. "Did you send someone to spy on me or did you decide to get rid of me if fate connived so? Are you so full of yourself, so used to move your obedient pawns on the chessboard that you truly thought I would not notice?"

"Genesis, you are accusing me of something I am not privy to."

His lover moved away a bit, his gestures and voice calm to appease him, only Genesis was no fool.

"Then give me a better answer."

Sephiroth sighed: "I do not know," and gently ran his fingers along his jaw. "I only know that I would _never_ do it to you. I give you my word of honor."

It rang so genuinely that Genesis would have been satisfied if not for the last sentence. He straightened, face contorted, sapphire eyes flashing, and hissed.

"Do you know how many broken words of honor I've heard in my life, broken for reasons pettier than your ruined reputation?"

It was a mistake to question his plausible explanation, his sincerity, his honor. The air between them froze like ice.

"Genesis, do not _ever_ talk to me like that." There was an unmistakably menacing note in the deep voice yet again, provoked, the redhead missed the moment of being carried away beyond the brink of his silver-haired lover's tolerance.

"Then enlighten me how I should talk to you. Hast thou made your decision? Shall I expect your presence, gallant sire? Canst I take my leave? Is it what you want to hear from me, the two-faced pleasantry and silken harangues?"

Genesis leapt up and gracefully bowed, taunting slipping out in ostentatious refinement of his movements.

The redhead knew he had said too much when in a swift whirl the silver-haired knight rose, face imperturbable and eyes icily aglisten.

"Just because I am sleeping with you," the velvety voice vibrated with barely controlled anger, "doesn't mean I shall tolerate you inveighing my bloodline and linage."

Genesis nearly chocked with anger, freezing, straining, fists clenched as claws of a feline before the jump. He hated being spoken to with such superiority, yet there was another feeling as a waking snake uncoiling in his chest, a feeling new and unfamiliar to him.

Hurt.

Sephiroth was _simply _sleeping with him.

Genesis fastened his garishly sapphire gaze into the silver pillar, looking for any signs of weakness, any flaw, any flicker of doubt on the marble face, still finding nothing, blink after blink, seeking and seeing just coldness.

"So you're _just sleeping_ with me!" Words were acrimoniously spat out, hurt drowned in poison for he knew no other defense.

For an instant he could have sworn by the Lord that the knight's face changed, that there was a flicker of genuine emotion beyond the icy-emerald weir of those beautiful eyes, yet the next moment the delusion shattered as he was gone, slipped out of the door, like a kiss of wind on his cheek.

Genesis angrily whisked guiltless chess pieces off the board and they, little and pitiful, scattered on the floor, pawns, knights, queens or kings, black or white, all the same in their helplessness - human toys.

Were they simply _toying_ with each other?

Genesis didn't understand why he was overreacting. How many of Sephiroth's likes did he have for a week, for a month? The answer was there, on the surface of his mind, filling him with a burning mixture of excitement and anxiety.

Sephiroth was different.

Genesis paced up and down the small room, once, twice, with much ado, that same snake like a tether coiled around his throat, then swiftly burst the door open, nearly causing it to come off the hinges.

With his silver plated back set against the black welkin Sephiroth stood, frozen, crowned with wan glitter of the full moon. Genesis halted in the narrow path of faint crimson candlelight, unwilling to ask his forgiveness, yet feeling he had to say something until the knight looked at him over his shoulder, only slightly raised edges of thin lips visible behind the otherworldly light veil of silver.

"I wouldn't be sleeping with someone who can ruin my reputation just for that sake."

It was so like Sephiroth, so much and not enough, the true meaning not in the words but in the softness of his voice. Something erupted in Genesis' chest, ruthlessly squeezing his throat, rising as a tidal wave of heat and molten blood. The redhead gasped, clinging onto his pride not to display more vulnerability than he was ready to.

His mother, only his poor burnt mother ever talked to him like that.

"_For God so loved the world…"_

God was dead and his love was dead with Him. Sephiroth noticed. Sephiroth did not understand.

"Genesis, what did I say?"

It was too much. His gait tipsy, as though he was drunk, Genesis dragged himself towards the dark wall of the forest, suddenly wishing that Sephiroth had said they were just sleeping together, for then he'd have no need to feel anything.

* * *

It was all Sephiroth in that room, perfection, restraint and coldness, his presence tangible as weightless veil of dust even during the absence of its holder. As sincerely as Marguerite craved to be his mistress and queen of his bedchambers, so little did she actually see him there in person.

Charred wood showed darkly in the fireplace and, discarded in haste, the book still lay on the carpet by the chair. Marguerite gently picked it up, flattened the rumpled vellum pages and, having closed it, placed on the cherry-wood table.

Her stepson always loved his room perfectly in order. He would want her to keep it for him until he came back.

Obviously, Sephiroth hasn't returned yet. The bed under the silvery canopy stood untouched, his sword was missing and the cloak didn't hang in its usual place, all these little details screaming out at her and reminding where the silver-haired knight had to be with his peasant mistress, with a girl of little virtues and such, a would-be shadow in her presence; still she kissed and embraced her stepson instead.

Marguerite strolled to the cupboard, took a silver goblet and a small vessel of wine. Something had to deaden the unbearable pain in her heart, to mute the cold words spoken as to a monster she was in his eyes. If that was his judgment, it felt unjust. With a shaking hand Marguerite brought the goblet to her lips and gulped it whole. Warm drink slid down her throat, like vivifying water, grey colors brightening with each droplet.

Will Sephiroth forgive her?

Marguerite helplessly shook her head and poured more wine, then more again as it didn't feel enough. Surroundings blurred, inducing her to sway and grip the edge of the table for feeble support. She's been drinking since morning, hiding from Louis, the rest of the household and questions they might ask. She wouldn't bear it if her husband reviled at her for the overuse of wine.

Love was everything but soothing and kind, but then wine took its place.

With a foolish smile, which must have been an aftermath of drinking, Marguerite placed her hand on the wooden pillar of her stepson's bed and moved, one slow step after another, towards the door.

Sephiroth had a good heart and with time he will forgive her; until then she had to find a way for them to be together, which couldn't be simple considering that the very person standing between them was Louis, the father of her child and…

Her knees doubled up under her and Marguerite, a repelled mother and mistress, fell by the fireplace. Even in her hazed mind the thoughts that followed sent shivers through her body which then began shaking uncontrollably.

"Dear God, forgive your wretched daughter," she forced an insipid whisper from her lips. He didn't answer. She repeated louder. "Our Father in Heaven, give me Thy Light and guide me in shadows of falling darkness."

He was silent, always silent. God does not answer monster's prayers.

The chilly stillness and even less warm thoughts weighed upon her as the coffin's lid. Thin hand reached out for the broken wine, brought to trembling lips and crimson poison streamed down her veins, warm and kind, and merciful, turning her pain into scarlet lit rubies at the bottom of the goblet.

* * *

"When are you going to tell me what happened in the castle?"

It was Sephiroth's second day of the voluntary imprisonment in the hut when Genesis finally repeated his question. Their conversation was strained, lapsed into a freezing streamlet of rare words hanging in the air. He hasn't yet overcome his enmity towards his stepmother, unwilling and unable to face her, to talk about her, yet, as the gaze of emerald eyes fell onto the dagger with the Nevers' Lion on its handle, the response escaped his lips on its own accord.

The least of all Sephiroth wanted Genesis hurt because of his family issues.

"I had an incident with my stepmother." There was nothing in his words, all truth mirrored in his eyes which he hid underneath the trembling long lashes.

Genesis morosely sneered, "Is it the same woman who graciously called me _filth_?"

Sephiroth absent-mindedly noted to himself that the redhead, regardless of his mercurial and irascible nature, remembered something he has thought away long ago.

"That was her." The knight knew his voice betrayed him, tired and defeated, yet went on nonetheless. "She killed Joan, my first wife."

Genesis cynically chuckled, voice dripping with scathing sarcasm.

"Poor little Sephiroth, you still believe in us, the creatures of foul nature. I can only imagine you always thinking your stepmother was a decent woman whilst she turned out to be a monster. But that is such a common story." Sephiroth turned his eyes on his lover, angered the latter's last words. Why was Genesis saying this?

"It does not matter what I believe in. Joan was just fourteen, and she was my wife." The overtones of the deep voice were kept dispassionate. "And my mother was barely sixteen. I was not much younger when I took my first life."

"Then let me tell you one about the family in Germany. I was a _fortunate_ witness of a father killing his wife and little daughter, firmly believing he was saving them from sin and vileness of the Earth and sending them straight to the Paradise. Now, wasn't he a _caring_ parent?"

Sephiroth slowly reclined on the back of his chair, eyes still on Genesis yet thoughts elsewhere. It was a mistake, despite all his good intentions, to confide his family matters to his lover. He obviously didn't understand and didn't even wish to try.

He reached for the chess board, emptied its contents on the table, fishing the white pieces out of the heap and placing them by his side. Genesis must have noticed he had shrunk into himself, yet the knight ignored how the redhead uneasily fidgeted in his seat.

"I really shouldn't have said that," his lover uncertainly began as leaden silence curled around them, like dragon's tale. The chess pieces were lined up on both sides of the board now, awaiting someone to make the first move.

"Spare me your excuses." Some of his bitterness must have slipped through, for his lover's face changed color, its usual sardonic mask slid off, giving way to something genuine, unguarded even. Remorse? He made the first move with the white pawn, fingers clutching the wooden piece with more force than they should and freezing there. "I can't be talking to a man who mocks the very sincerity in each of my words."

Sephiroth looked down and the wave of silver moiré rolled in over his face. His lover's fingers gently opened his brokenly clutched ones. Warmth and smoothness interlaced over the painted white pawn. For an instant they were gazing into each other's eyes, then Genesis rose and prosily observed.

"The weather is beautiful. I suggest we pay our visit to the city."

Before Sephiroth could object a light silver cloak with a deep hood fell onto his shoulders, its twin concealing Genesis' eccentric smile thereupon.

* * *

By the time they got to Nevers, it was already dark. Most streets were poorly lit or not lit at all, so there hardly was a need for precautions such as wearing a deep hood, only Sephiroth wasn't willing to take his chances of being accidentally recognized. Leaving the horses in the tavern they'd be spending the rest of the night at, two shadows, the knight and his lover, headed in the general direction of the market square.

Sephiroth couldn't say he liked Nevers. He agreed with his stepfather that compared to Paris all other cities were insipid shadows united in a useless attempt to mirror the capital's glory and splendour.

Darkness swallowed them and the sound of their light steps on the cobbled roadway as lovers went past the town hall and turned onto a wider street that would eventually lead them to the market square. Two times sentries passed without halting, perhaps, mistaking them for harmless loafers. The thick veil of mist, carrying the ever-present odour, clung to their skin, getting into the cape, and, if not for that and the smell, the night would have been quite pleasant and enjoyable.

Sephiroth broke the silence first.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"There was a fair today," Genesis' warm hand unnoticeable slipped into his. "Perhaps, there is still something going on the market square."

The heat of Genesis' palm was surprisingly soothing, melting his preceding resentments. Sephiroth smiled.

"The circus comes into Nevers at times, when the Bishop is willing to close his eyes to its presence."

Sephiroth was right. The market square was blazing with fires from dozens of torches, illumining the motley crowd gathered for the unprecedented show, drawn as butterflies to the candlelight. Shrewd music of dulcimer and tambourines filled the air, blending with soft murmurs or drunken yells from the throng. On the dais that usually served as scaffold during the public executions and flagellations about a dozen or so frames moved, woven in a strange barbaric dance.

Lovers elbowed their way closer to the dais through the crowd of men, women and children of different social origins, from rich merchants, knights and craftsmen to beggars and thieves.

"Watch your purse," Genesis smirked into his ear, but the knight needed not to be reminded of keeping vigilance.

Meanwhile the scenario on the stage changed. A bulky man in dirty, greasy jester's clothing brought out a creature that first looked like an exotic animal to Sephiroth's keen eyes yet turned out to be a pygmy, a freak, maimed by the nature itself that mercilessly gifted him with disproportional huge head and jutting out of the snotty cut-like mouth, yellow teeth.

The throng cheered and greeted the new entertainment.

"Noble ladies and gents," the jester began with a terrible accent, shaking his bells on his multi-coloured headwear. "Give your warm greetings to Turpis!"

In Latin '_turpis_' stood for '_the foul'_.

"Panem et circenses," Genesis echoed with a sniff. "Some things do not change even in centuries."

The freak on the leash performed an acrobatic rollover, earning a round of whistling and guffaw. Some began throwing stones and heads of cabbage at the dwarf, who – to their greater rapture – began to dodge with unexpected grace.

"Turpis may be deaf, but his eyes are as keen as falcon's!" Proclaimed the burly man as the cabbage head missed the pygmy and hit him in the chest.

The crowd roared with laughter. Distorted faces in crimson lights seemed even uglier than that of the freak.

"What wouldn't people do for a good laugh?" The knight mused and then looked at the redhead. "Only I have no desire to laugh, Genesis."

Hands joined, lovers skirted the dais, and without looking back went deep into the labyrinth of narrow dirty streets. As the clamour died out, turning into usual sounds of splashing dirt underneath their feet, Genesis asked anew.

"What happened between you and your stepmother?"

"We had a misunderstanding," Sephiroth replied reservedly.

"Forget about what I had blurted out before." Genesis impetuously waved his hand, halting. "I… I didn't think about what I was saying."

For once his lover's words provoked a faint smile.

"I'll tell you in the tavern."

The redhead sighed and let go of his hand. They stood at arm's length. Sapphire eyes glistened with sudden enveloping warmth.

Then Genesis removed the hood, took that last step that separated them and, flinging his arms round the knight's neck, buried hot lithe lips between Sephiroth's.

* * *

The room was sultry yet the heat didn't save Marguerite from cold, creeping up and down her spine chills, as she quietly entered the dark bedchamber. Lorenzo was reposed in the armchair, yet upon seeing her enter, rose and gallantly took her slender palm, placing a feather light kiss on her fingers. Thin lips on the sleek face were cold.

"What brought you here, milady, in such late hour?"

She eyed the merchant all over in a truly regal manner, gliding by, like a light carvel in flying green garments.

"I need a favour, Lorenzo."

He chuckled behind her, yet didn't discard the usual flawlessly polite mask.

"With all due respect, milady, your family owes me more money than you could pay in years and, unless you came here to sell your stepson into permanent slavery, we have nothing to talk about." Another amused chuckle. "Not that I mind. He would be an excellent bodyguard to protect my merchants…"

The way it was said, so calmly, so smoothly, as though men and women were his goods to sell on the market square of a provincial city, made her inwardly cringe.

No. Not Sephiroth. Ever.

"Leave him out of this!" Marguerite snapped, realizing too late that there was too much emotion in her voice for such conversation. However, Lorenzo pretended he didn't notice.

"As you say, milady," there was slight disappointment in his voice, only the sleek face never reflected anything besides a smile. "Which still doesn't cancel our previous agreement and I shall be needing his services very soon and in a very delicate matter _others_ you provided failed to resolve."

His well-cared for fingers were playing with the furs on his cotardie, the ever-present gesture so mawkishly annoying.

Marguerite widely smiled to amend her miscue.

"You will have what you need, but I came to discuss something else. You have connections abroad, with the Florentine house of Bardi, which used to supply Edward with money."

Lorenzo laughed, piercing eyes devoid of any mirth.

"The house of Bardi is bankrupt."

"It doesn't matter. I will only need you to hire _someone _reliable in the English army. This should be a sufficient payment for such services."

A small bag of money fell onto the table with a faint clang. The merchant picked it up, weighed in his hand with another approving smile of his.

"It seems so. But _my_ services are of greater value. I am risking to be exposed dealing with the enemy and this could threaten…"

That was the hardest part. Marguerite haughtily threw her head back, interrupting her interlocutor.

"I know." Subtle fingers moved, unlacing the intricate pattern of strings which held her dress in place, and green cloth slid down, exposing her naked body. For the first time during the conversation there was a lively spark in his cold eyes, lewd, avid flare, as his gaze slid along her frame.

'Slimy bastard,' she thought with a shiver to surmount the sickening pit forming in her stomach, to muster up all her courage. Thanks to God, she had her share of wine before coming here.

It was her only strength, the power weak women had over any man, hardly any less deadly than those fool's swords and maces. Helen of Troy used her power to wage a war, unseen and unknown before. She just wanted to love her stepson. Nothing more.

"Isn't it what you wanted, dreamt of, Lorenzo?" Marguerite prattled into his ear, desperately fighting disgust, which woke anew as she touched that sleek yet cold skin. "The flesh of kings, the blood of kings will be yours for just one night in exchange for a small favour."

He swallowed, breath hot and quick on her cheek. Hands felt her breasts in a studied gesture, as though he was buying a milking cow, the touch getting bold and passionate as though he already owned her. Fingers, adorned with rubies, plunged into the wavy mass of her luxuriant brown hair, bringing her pale face closer. Her lower lips trembled in a forced smile, yet he didn't seem to care.

"I accept," Lorenzo whispered in such uncharacteristic, hoarse voice. "Only, know, I shall not be gentle… milady."

There was no respect in his words, just mockery. Tears welled up in her eyes from the awaiting humiliation, yet, grateful it was dark in the bedchambers, Marguerite stood on tiptoes and honeyed something into his ears.

In a manner in which his hands coiled around her waist, cold lips hungrily clung to her mouth and body shivered from her touch, was Lorenzo's answer that, no matter how vile and dishonourable her request was, it shall be fulfilled.


	12. Chapter XI: Samael and Lilith

_A/N:_ _**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Samael –_ there are many interpretations of who Samael is, but I went with the Kabbalistic where Samael is a fifth archangel of the World of Creation. Is said to have descended from Heaven to rule over Hell (banished for pride). Lilith is his wife.

_Lilith–_again, in the Kabbalah, is Adam's first wife, created before or with him, but who ended up defying God's will, fleeing Adam and becoming a demon and Samael's wife.

* * *

_**Chapter XI.**_

_**Samael and Lilith.**_

"_How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!" (Isaiah, 14:12, KJV)_

Body with body, lips between lips, entwined, clinging, engulfing. Gaze in gaze, breath with breath, locked, joined, drowning. Passion with passion, movement with movement, alternated, scorching, seething.

Everything and nothing.

Genesis reached out for Sephiroth's undershirt, swiftly pulled it over his head, one hand lingering on the chiseled shoulder, the other slowly sliding into long skin-tight johns, removing them, whilst lips continued to smother his lover's marble neck with incessant hot kisses. Silver hair fell onto his face and Genesis took a moment to throw it off, a pause between his caresses long enough for the knight to take his turn in pleasuring him. The redhead got used to his body easily submitting to Sephiroth's foreplay, to the flames being ignited with even the subtlest of touches and to sweet shivers thin lips, roughly clinging to his skin, sent through him. Genesis' hand wrapped around the slender waist, as he leaned into the long kiss, yielding to its power and melting in strong arms not nearly long enough, soon finding himself sprawled on his back, legs helplessly moved apart, and slow refined strokes on his inner thighs eliciting faint melodic sounds from his lips. Thereupon strong liquid-like body slid in-between, clasping him to the bed. Fingers closed down upon his wrists, bringing his arms together behind his head so that he could only jerk his thighs, as, teasing, cool skin brushed against his heated flesh, at once causing blood and ardor to flush his abdomen.

Upon seeing his response mirrored in sapphire gaze, thin lips folded into a smirk and Sephiroth repeated his move again oh so slowly, causing him to abruptly hitch his knees up and arch forward, closer, and with bated breath.

They were not women to be gentle with each other. That was the thought reflected in passion hazed, nearly silver-green eyes as the knight got a better grip of his wrists with just one hand, leisurely running the other along his cheek, neck, every curve of his chest and strained muscles lower, reaching his loins and returning, too slowly, back and forth, fondling, teasing, playing.

Torturing.

"Sephiroth, stop it," the redhead hoarsely begged, biting at his lower lip, and moaning wantonly after another gusty caress of his lover's hand between his legs. Not that he expected Sephiroth to listen to him.

"Don't you like it?" Velvety words flowed into his ear, joining with thin lips pushing apart his wet lithe ones and slick tongue exploring his mouth in an insatiable desire. As everything about his silver-haired lover now, it tasted of fervor and arousal.

A pitiful sound was all he could utter into Sephiroth's kiss as long fingers taunted, sliding along his skin, and then finally slipped inside him in a fallaciously gentle manner.

Genesis wanted release, liberation from overflowing heat, yet Sephiroth wasn't in the mood to grant one, leaving him moaning and wriggling somewhere on the brink of painful throbbing pleasure and utter unforgettable bliss with just his exquisite fingers buried deep within his body.

Genesis tightly wrapped his legs around his lover's waist, arching forward, deeper into tormenting caress. By now he was all sweaty and pliant, so ready to relish the finale of their game that he nearly missed the moment Sephiroth, more flames than ice now, fully plunged into his core.

He was slow, too slow; panting, Genesis tried to raise himself on the elbow but failed, flaccidly leaning back in a feeble struggle against his lover's persistent sluggishness. Silver head fell onto his chest, and the redhead found himself veiled in cool weightless moiré, thin tresses on his thighs, between his fingers. Sephiroth's every deep and slow thrust inside him was wringing short acute cries, bereaving him of last scintilla of air.

None ever was able to drive him into such exuberant bliss.

Through besotting sweetness of their ecstasy his lover groaned with sheer delectation, arching his back in Genesis' palms, flashing emerald and sending red-hot convulsive shivers thought his body with last vehement fulfilling slides within. If the redhead could twine tighter around his lover's body, he did so, and their moans merged into one meaningless sound, a loud scream untrammelled at that.

For Genesis the night shattered into shreds of blackness, inflamed with white fringe of bliss.

Everything and nothing.

Overwhelmed, the redhead fell onto the sheets, desperately struggling for breath, feeling the bed caving underneath as Sephiroth, exhausted and satiated himself, leaned back onto the pillows by his side.

Genesis slightly turned to see his lover's face, greatly amused with the changes which softened marble features, casting a shadow of tenderness over them. Whirls of silver mist hazed piercing emerald eyes, high cheekbones were slightly glowing and curves of thin lips relented into beautifully feminine. The redhead absently wondered if he looked the same.

With a faint mirthful chuckle Genesis reached out and fondly wiped his lover's damp forehead, leaving fingers entangled in shorter silver locks. Sephiroth gave him a look that for some reasons churned him up, so unbearably genuine it was, so unlike anyone has ever gifted him with. For an instant Genesis could see his mother's face, not the painfully distorted one but the starlit placid face and the love it radiated.

Swallowing a clot in his throat, the redhead froze in his lover's embrace. Silence and motionlessness fell, carrying warmth and softness of owl's wings stretched over them. He could hear Sephiroth's heartbeat and breath so flawless the stillness was, not even the sounds from the street disturbing it.

In it was everything and nothing but a moment of peace frozen in eternity. Life consisted of those, threaded as pearls onto a string only to be buried in turmoil and suffering in a blink of an eye.

Sephiroth blinked and stretched underneath him, ruining the bewitching delusion.

"I guess you should know about how dangerous my stepmother is." The deep voice softened as well, surprising Genesis yet again by revealing another side of his lover's complex nature. "She might be the one who sent the tail after you. Only I can't imagine how she would have known… about us."

Genesis smiled in a carefree manner. He's endured ordeals a lot worse, like being chased across the vast fields and forests of Languedoc after he had slain the Bishop of Toulouse, who signed the order of his mother's execution, before everyone's very eyes. Blood for blood was the primal law. Take and you could be bereaved of the same one day.

He might tell this story to his silver-haired lover one day, he might not.

"I never thought your stepmother would bother sullying her good name by gracing me with her attention, unless," he raised himself on the elbow, having astutely added, "you are not telling me everything."

It was easy to read Sephiroth now, his slight reluctance and a flashing shadow of anger all too obvious to his keen eyes.

"I am not."

Genesis derisively tilted his head to the side, spraying marble chest with rich auburn locks.

"You don't need to. There is only one delicate matter, involving the honor of a woman, any knight would be reluctant to talk about." Fingers were now gently drawing patterns on his lover's smooth thigh. "I would not be surprised to hear that she fell in love with you. Why it…"

He nearly blurted out, 'Why it is so easy,' yet thought better of it, for the replica would have rung awkwardly suggestive. Not that Sephiroth noticed, anyways; he could be so blind to someone else's feelings.

The next question and the notes in the deep voice only confirmed his surmises, eliciting a curt amused laugh from his lips.

"How did you know?"

"It is an apt guess and, judging by you reaction, I was right, wasn't I?" A nod and a sigh were a good enough answer, provoking a short lightning prick his heart. "But you didn't share her feelings, did you?"

Again he was so easily excited, realizing what he had said only a moment after, as thin lips curled into a teasing smirk.

"Are you jealous, Genesis?" He answered with a dramatic gesture of vexation. Why did he care about Sephiroth's family issues so much? The following words, however, laid aside his doubts. "If you have any decency and dignity left, you wouldn't be sleeping with the wife of a man who gave you everything."

Genesis drew forward to steal a languishing kiss from his lover, showing his satisfaction in a lingering caress to Sephiroth's lower, plusher lip, fading in his faint breath.

"You should forget about her and Joan. You could do nothing, let alone prevent it from happening."

"So you, of all people, suggest I forgive my stepmother."

Genesis shrugged.

"I didn't say forgive. I said – forget, think away, concentrate on something else. Acceptance will come on its own."

Sephiroth frowned with confusion, eyebrows knitting into a thin line over icy-emerald eyes.

"I live with this woman under one roof. I… I do not wish to face her or talk to her after what she had done."

Looking at his lover in disbelief, Genesis swiftly leapt off the bed, screaming livid with sudden surge of wrath.

"Then I should remind you that you are sleeping with a cold-blooded murderer!" The knight's eyes darkened. "Is it what you are trying to tell me?"

The last question escaped his lips almost like a sob. His lover tried to remonstrate, but he pushed Sephiroth's hands aside and, naked as he was, dashed out of the tavern room into the cold hall.

Sephiroth followed, overtaking Genesis by the door, and pressed his body to the wall with force he was unable to fight.

Panting, the redhead constrained himself to speak: "Let go of me, Sephiroth."

"No. Not until you hear me out, at least." Blazing emerald eyes neared, withering him. "I never said I was a saint or a preacher to accuse you of anything. We all have our battles to fight, and I understand you had your reasons." The silver-haired knight took a breath after such an uncharacteristically passionate speech and let go of him, suddenly tired, as though having lost any hope of dissuading him. "My mother's guile was different, irrational. Joan was just an innocent shy child. When we quelled the insurgency of the Flemish peasants, we burnt down the whole villages, and children perished in flames. Have you ever seen children dying, Genesis, crying and begging for mercy and… and grabbing deathman's ankles? Perhaps, occasional regret is all I have left to feel, but at least we were enemies and that was a war. I was angry because I hoped to see something different in times of peace… a vain hope, wasn't it?"

The last words were a faltering whisper in his ears, arms searching for his warmth, lips seeking his skin. All his anger has dissipated by now and, once again filled with regret, Genesis dropped his head onto his lover's chest, clinging to broad shoulders and feeling Sephiroth's heart throbbing under his chin.

"I am not good at saying genuinely pleasant, comforting things, Sephiroth," melodic voice trembled with emotion. "But if it makes you feel better, what do you expect from the world whose Creator bestowed the name of Lucifer, the Light Bringer, upon the fallen Archangel to be?"

Sephiroth said nothing, bringing him even closer as he was calming down from the tumult that seized them both. Embracing each other, they stood in the doorway, oblivious to anyone and anything, Genesis' hand awkwardly stroking Sephiroth's back. Outside the bells rang twelve times, and a new day began but they stood, still frozen, fading between short moments that were slipping away into eternity forevermore.

Finally Sephiroth broke his embrace, closed the door and guided him back to the bed.

"I expect nothing from this world," he said thereupon, calm and restrained anew. "I make things happen or fail to do so."

The redhead wrapped a woolen blanket around them, going still in his lover's arms. Outside Nevers was falling asleep as well.

"Sleep, Sephiroth," was all he whispered, closing his eyes and resting against the warm body in his arms to hear last quiet words.

"Thank you, Genesis, for you've reconciled me with myself."

Silver coiled around his waist, soft against his cooling skin and lucid as tears of the son of dawn, of the morning star.

Lucifer's tears.

* * *

The leaden stillness hung over the knight's hall that morning as Marguerite was having breakfast with her husband alone. Louis looked cheerless and remained unusually silent during the whole meal, for which she was extremely grateful. What she did the day before tortured her, depriving of any appetite. Even looking at the food caused nauseating pits to appear in her stomach. Louis must have had his troubles, for he just asked why she had looked so tired and had had begs under her eyes, not really paying attention to her excuses.

Marguerite clenched the goblet stem and brought it to her lips. The feeling of disgust she felt for herself, for Lorenzo could not be washed away with thousands of baths like the one she took this morning. What _things_ that Lombard did to her, what _things_ he forced her to do to him only harlots in dirtiest of brothel's in Paris allowed to be done to their bodies. He turned her inside out and made her _beg_ for more and more… and more. Marguerite swallowed bitter lump of bile; she felt dirty, loathsome, tainted.

At least it helped her forget _what_ she asked of Lorenzo in return.

The wine burnt her throat, and she shuddered in her warm dark-green dress.

"Have you seen Sephiroth lately?"

Marguerite flinched, tearing her gaze away from unappetizing contents of her plate and trying to focus on the Count's face.

"No, darling," she forced a pitiful reply, her heart skipping a beat at the mention of her stepson's name. There was something even in the very sound of his name, alluring and entrancing and tormenting with desire of unattainable. "He could have had some private matters in Nevers."

"I hope you are not talking about his peasant mistress."

Marguerite had enough strength to ably feign astonishment.

"I thought it was a canard but if you say so, my dearest husband, it has to be true."

Louis frowned with obvious dissatisfaction.

"Where Sephiroth finds pleasures concerns me little as long as he fulfils his duties and with that girl my son seemed to have forgotten he had any." Marguerite craved to say something in defence of her stepson, but soon enough realized that, if spoken aloud, her words would raise more unwanted questions than give answers to. "I asked Alber, I asked his vassals," Louis continued, "but none seems to know. Has he just disappeared or, God forbid, had an injury?"

"No, father."

Marguerite gasped and dropped the silver goblet, which landed on the dais with a faint clang, splashing her dress with ruby droplets. In the doorway right across the hall stood none but Sephiroth himself, calm and self-possessed, clothed in a long dark cape. Waves of silver scattered on his shoulders, framing her stepson's flawlessly marble face, always so guarded even when he confided some of his personal thoughts to her.

As always viscount's presence stirred a silly sensation and a desire to smile, even through tears. Marguerite didn't feel like a daughter of kings, but rather as a bashful teenage girl on her first date.

Louis already hurried towards their stepson, all his deep gloom forgotten in a cheerful exclamation "Thank God!". Marguerite wished she could do the same, but Sephiroth ignored her. All words were stuck in her throat, only fingers convulsively clutched the fringe on the tablecloth she once knitted.

Marguerite preferred he'd wither her instead of displaying complete nonchalance. From hatred to love there was only one step whilst between indifference and love stretched a bottomless pit.

Sprightly conversing with the Count, Sephiroth left the hallway, not deigning her even with a quick glance.

Marguerite helplessly reclined on the back of her chair with her husband's unfinished goblet in her fingers.

Sephiroth came back, only she didn't know how to feel about his return.

Marguerite found her stepson later, as he, alone, stood in the desolated hallway of the castle, distant emerald eyes riveted on something outside the loophole. Maybe, he was waiting for her, wanting to put everything behind them and begin anew. She wore her white dress, choosing the colour of purity she did not deserve, the colour of repentance she did not feel, the colour of forgiveness she most of all craved.

She forgot all her masks, because it was ill time for pretence; he would want sincerity.

"Sephiroth," her voice lifelessly rustled, unable to fill the emptiness between them and the crack she created in heedlessness. "You can't ignore me all day and pretend I do not exist."

She could not see his profile, hidden in short locks of silver hair; at times he would slightly trim them to keep even. Then she would gather those magnificent silver tresses and secretly hide them as deep as her own love for her stepson was concealed and imprisoned in her heart.

Sephiroth placed one palm onto the stone jut of a loophole, leaning on it as though feeling weary.

"What do you wish to add, mother?"

"Forgive me, please." Despite being tempted to reach out for him, Marguerite stood motionless, knowing that the touch would ruin everything. "Please. I thought I could lose you and was so desperate I would have resorted to anything, my son, to keep you from leaving the family. I was wrong and I've done horrible things, but the depths of my remorse are limitless. God forgave people who killed his son and…"

Cold as the snow in the mountains was his voice, interrupting her.

"I am no God, mother, and it is not my forgiveness you should seek."

Words, strictly polite and lifeless, grated upon her ears.

"Do I at least have a chance to earn it?"

Her humiliation in Lorenzo's hands could not be a waste of effort; if Sephiroth gave her hope – let it be forlorn hope – she would be satisfied.

"I don't know, mother." With those words his silver-plated back disappeared around the corner.

Marguerite clasped her palms to her face and froze, a white pale shadow in the wide hall of a castle.

At least he didn't say 'no'.

* * *

That evening Genesis was in dramatic mood, retelling Sephiroth countless stories and ancient legends, once again amazing the knight with the depths of his knowledge. In his roves he heard countless folk tales and strangest rumours and now, putting his whole mercurial soul into acting, was reviving them in such delicate way the knight at times thought he was witnessing the tale happening before his very eyes in a small desolated hut.

Faint flames in the small fireplace cast quivering shadows onto the redhead's beautiful face, giving it another shade of mystery and solemnity, which perfectly harmonized with lively cerulean eyes and smoothly flowing ariose voice. Reposed on the bed, Sephiroth thoughtfully watched, silent nearly all evening, revelling in unfamiliar yet undoubtedly pleasant emotions his lover's presence and acting stirred.

Then at least he could forget about his stepmother.

Genesis loosened the laces on his undershirt and it slid off his left shoulder, exposing just enough of refined curves to tease him. Dramatically throwing his head back in the halo of blazing auburn hair, the redhead continued with the legend to the beginning of which he, having been lost in contemplation of his lover, paid no heed.

"… They overtook Lilith in the skies above the Mediterranean Sea. Three maelstroms, shrouded in smoke and rising steam, three Angels that God had sent after the runaway insurgent wife of Adam, his firstborn. Goldish as rays of setting sun, green as richest of spring leaves and sky-blue as the upturned chalice of welkin above the rivers of Paradise, three pillars surrounded the bright glistening speckle. And the voice from the goldish pillar thundered: 'Behold, Lilith, the will of the Lord of the world! The One, of Whom there exists none greater, sent me to fetch thy soul and return it to the husband He hath chosen for you.' To which Lilith replied boldly: 'I know no husband, I know no Lord and I shall obey no other will but my own.' Thereupon the voice from the green pillar thundered: 'Behold, Lilith, the will of the Lord Almighty! The One, of Whom there exists none greater, sent me to fetch thy soul and return it to the husband He hath chosen for you.' Lilith's words were the same. At last the voice from the sky-blue pillar thundered: 'Behold, Lilith, the will of the Lord Almighty!'. But Lilith did not listen to either of them and so returned the Angels to the Throne of God empty-handed."

Genesis paused to take a breath. Sephiroth didn't wish to stir to ruin the entrancing delusion, quietly and gingerly asking: "What of Lilith, Genesis?"

"Lilith, Sephiroth, fled to Gehenna where she met Samael, the guardian of the nethermost fires, precipitated there by God for being the first Angel who sinned. Lucifer, the morning star, is said to be Samael's other name."

"But isn't Lucifer one of Satan's names?" Sephiroth inquired, amazed. His lover's sensual lips stretched in a smirk.

"There are various theories and interpretations. One sage may tell you one story, another - a completely different version of the same tale." He rummaged in his pocket, taking the wooden sliver out and placing it on the wooden table top near the chessboard. "And so Truth becomes nearly useless. You are, however, asking the wrong question."

Sephiroth raised himself on the elbow with a teasing smile.

"Tell me what the right question is then."

"What is the meaning of it, for us at least?" Genesis passionately breathed out, azure eyes suddenly distant.

"Which is?"

The redhead laughed, stretching himself by his side. Sephiroth's hand slid under his lover's shirt, twining around the slender waist in the most unambiguous manner.

"I don't know all answers, Sephiroth, otherwise I would have become a God."

Genesis drew forward, covering his mouth with lips softer than the softest of flower petals and, sharing a breath, a kiss, lovers interlaced their fingers.

Sephiroth leaned back, feeling warmth and weight of the redhead's body, and closed his eyes.

Samael and Lilith.

The Angel's dance in the clear skies above the Mediterranean Sea.

Everything that evening seemed unreal and otherworldly, from Genesis' words to Genesis' unusually slow and timid caresses, begetting a new feeling he had yet to find the name for.

Could it be love?

* * *

The squeak of the door to his bedchambers woke Sephiroth up earlier than he was used to rising after having spent the night with his lover. Alber squeezed himself through the chink with a clean towel and a copper basin filled with warm water to wash his hands and face. The viscount gracefully stretched himself under the blanket, suppressing a yawn. Usually he would reprehend his squire for waking him up, but yesterday's night evoked too many good memories to spoil the mood he was in for such trifling reason.

"What is such urgency for?" He asked without opening his eyes.

"Forgive me, messire, but your father sent me to tell you Lorenzo would be joining us for beakfast."

Sephiroth sat up and quickly washed his hands and face, wiping them with the towel. Immediately he felt refreshed and full of energy. Alber helped him put his velvet silver-green cotardie on – after all, the knight didn't wish to look any worse than the Lombard – and Sephiroth set about combing his waist-length hair thereupon.

… By the time the viscount came down to the knight's hall the breakfast has already began. His stepparents and the merchant sat in the chairs on the dais with steaming plates of fish soup in front of them whilst the maiden was laying out freshly baked bread onto the table. Louis and Lorenzo were engrossed in a lively conversation but Marguerite looked like she'd prefer being anywhere else but with the latter at the same table.

Sephiroth's distrust and dislike for her stubbornly lingered. Genesis said acceptance would come with time; maybe, he would be able to forgive his stepmother and forget Joan has ever flashed in his life. Until then he preferred spending as little time in her presence as possible, taking a seat by Lorenzo instead and avoiding her avid gaze.

Fish soup was delicious; Sephiroth, however, wondered if that day everything seemed excellent. After having his share of the meal, the knight spoke to the Lombard.

"So what brought you here today?"

"Lorenzo is offering us a bargain," his stepfather answered instead. "If we help him deal with a certain delicate matter, he is wiling to significantly reduce our debt. It is a generous offer."

The Count raised his goblet. Sephiroth followed his stepfather's example, shifting his gaze to the merchant who was wearing a dark brown silken coratdie without the usual adornment of furs. The sleek face looked paler than usual yet the smile, polite and cunning, didn't vanish.

"What favour does he want?" Sephiroth elegantly broke off a piece of bread with the tips of his long fingers.

"It is nothing serious, I assure you, messire," Lorenzo chimed in with the most pleasant of his smiles, "but the delicacy of it compels me to keep it secret and as covert as possible. That is why I have to ask lady Marguerite to leave."

"Leave us, darling," Louis addressed his stepmother at once and she obeyed, hastily and too eagerly, as though she was just waiting for the moment to depart the hall. Before disappearing through the door she shot a quick glance at him and then at Lorenzo.

"The matter concerns a man who caused me and my family a lot of trouble." The merchant took a sip from the goblet and cleared his throat. "He brought dishonour on my niece by disguising himself as a monk and thus getting into our house. My niece is a very virtuous girl, she would have never fallen for the charms of a scum but he forced her and then fled. For years I haven't heard of him until he was spotted in Nevers." Sephiroth hid a smirk in the corners of his lips. He personally knew how _continent_ young girls were, but said nothing, listening to the merchant as he resumed speaking. "To avoid any calumny that could follow after the revelations I resorted to your aid."

"Continue, Lorenzo," the Count graciously smiled.

"The tail I sent after him ended up dead a couple of days ago, so I would like to ask your stepson, messire," Lorenzo gave him a significant look, "to resolve this matter and bring the man to me."

With a palpitating heart Sephiroth was beginning to realize the merchant was talking about Genesis, but it was too late.

His stepfather has already agreed.


	13. Chapter XII: Ill omens and good omens

_Summary:_ Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_ _**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Hugh Capet_ - the first King of France of the eponymous Capetian dynasty.

… _the virtue of your mother – _is referred to the wife of Philippe V and Marguerite's mother, Joan, who, while her two sisters cheated on their husbands, remained a faithful wife.

* * *

_**Chapter XII.**_

_**Ill o**__**mens and good omens.**_

"_Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers." (Lord Byron)._

The hut was empty, flames in the small fireplace dead and the bed, a witness of countless passionate nights, cold. Sephiroth stepped inside, hoping against hope that Genesis came although they were not supposed to meet that night.

He didn't.

The knight unbuckled his belt, let the sword slide along his leg and rested it against the wooden wall. The silver cloak slipped off his broad shoulders and Sephiroth threw it over the back of the chair, absent-mindedly running his hand over the table top where a bottle of Burgundy stood. Wan candlelight illumined interiors of the dwelling, somehow accentuating its emptiness.

The bed was neatly made; with a faint smile Sephiroth lay down, immediately sensing the smell of Genesis' hair. If he closed his eyes, the scent became stronger. Long fingers brushed against the pillowcase, its softness reminiscent of the mellowness his lover's skin smacked on his lips.

The knight thought with this sensation of peace he could fall asleep yet the anxiety he felt for Genesis' fate kept him awake and tossing. At that time he lacked any solution, hoping that shedding more light onto this mysterious niece of Lorenzo's would give him the answer. Handing his lover over to the merchant wasn't an option.

Finally realizing that, no matter how hard he tried, the uneasiness would not let him rest, the knight rose, swiftly threw the cape over his shoulders and left the hut.

… Before dawn all taverns at Nevers were empty aside from belated chance loiterers or tipplers. A nearly palpable veil from the late evening _pastimes_ still hung in dead air. Wrinkling his nose in disgust from the acrid odour of cheap sour beer and sweat, Sephiroth stepped over the threshold. A sleepy tavernkeepr in a greasy apron cast a stolid look at him without recognizing his face underneath the deep hood. In the opposite corner, his head buried in the rough wooden table top as if it was the softest pillow, his arms awkwardly spread out, snored a blind drunk squire.

His gait light and unhurried, the silver-haired knight came up to the counter.

"I need a room for the day." A pair of silver coins clanked on the wooden top, the payment clearly more than adequate for the quarters.

The surly innkeeper covered a slack yawn with his hand, never asking a single question, "Third one to your left."

Sephiroth headed for the stairs, ascended them, but instead of turning left, continued straight, entering the same room they've been spending all nights at if being delayed in the city. To his relief Genesis has been peacefully sleeping in bed wrapped in layers of woollen blankets – despite warmth of the summer nights, he loved to luxuriate with extra amenities.

Having closed the door ever so gently, the knight came to stand by the window, looking out onto the empty street, bathing in first bashful rays of the rising sun yet still veiled in predawn semidarkness. A lone frame of a horseman emerged from around the corner and disappeared once more, followed by two women in casual light brown dresses who headed in the direction of the church.

The city was slowly returning to life.

Sephiroth's thoughtful gaze rested on his lover again, on the mass of slightly dishevelled auburn hair, on the spot of smooth goldish skin between fiery locks, on the gentle bow of shoulders, partially concealed beneath the blanket of grey yarn.

Why was he willing to risk so much for Genesis? Why the only thought of the redhead being detained in a cell, one on one with his madness, stirred the heave of controversial feelings, from fright to anger, to the very desire of wanting Lorenzo dead? Never ever in his life his feelings were so strong. Could it be that he, never knowing what love was, was falling for the person of lower social origin, despite being seized by the feeling of impending disaster?

Before he met Genesis Sephiroth would have found those thoughts laughable at best. Now he didn't know what to think besides that, to protect his lover from Lorenzo, he would go far. Very far.

Shaking his silver head, the knight stole another glance at Genesis and slipped out of the room the same quiet way he entered. Before the redhead woke up Sephiroth wanted to get hot breakfast. The conversation between them would be long and hardly pleasant.

On the street he immediately spotted a familiar frame of the hawker with waffles. Having overtaken him on the crossing, Sephiroth paid for the food for two, earning a grateful even if tired grin, and was about to return when heard the clear ringing of the hooves against the pavement. Pulling his hood over his eyes, he took a step to the side to let the riders pass, but it was too late. The three horsemen have already spotted his frame.

As the knights surrounded him, Sephiroth intently watched their faces, recognizing his stepfather's vassals. They were young hotheads and, judging by the loud laughter and silly looks, slightly tipsy hotheads.

"Who do you think this is, Alfonso?" One of the horsemen addressed the other in a drunken voice.

"Ask him," the oldest one on a chestnut muttered with a hiccup.

"I swear by the Devil," the youngest chimed in with a loud cheerful blasphemy, "this is one of those knight-errants, who steal all our glory. I order you - name yourself!"

The last words were spoken to him. Maintaining his cold composure, Sephiroth unnoticeable placed his hand on the bow of his bastard sword and answered.

"I swore not to divulge my name until my pilgrimage is complete."

"That is the stupidest custom of cravens." The man named Alfonso snorted with disdain. "Name yourself, or..."

"And your words are not less vainglorious than my vow is coward." Sephiroth parried calmly, the emerald flash in his eyes concealed by the hood. Knowing who he was would have taken the hubris out of those impudent vassals, but the momentary satisfaction of seeing it wasn't worth the risk.

Changing countenance, the youngest withered him and urged the steed forward to corner him to a wall.

"How dare you talk back with such insolence? Do you even know who you are speaking to?!"

In a fluid move Sephiroth unsheathed his bastard sword and cut the horse's rein, causing it to prance in fear. Having lost control of his steed, the youngest fell out of the saddle and, moaning, sprawled on the ground whilst his two friends bared their axes and pushed up to him, yet halting half-way, faces pale and eyes widened with fear. Only now the knight noticed that with his abrupt thrust the hood fell off his head, revealing chiselled features. It was impossible to mistaken him for any other man now.

Weapons were sheathed at once, mounts abandoned and the three unlucky young men deeply bowed, freezing in the humblest of poses; all drunkenness clearly vanished in the twinkling of an eye.

"Forgive us, messire, we didn't recognize you." It was Alfonso, the oldest and the most reasonable one among the three. Sephiroth gave them a cold dissatisfied glance.

"Go back to the castle and look to it that this nonsense never happens again."

"Yes, messire."

Ashamed, his stepfather's vassals mounted and pinpointed out of his sight as hastily as possible.

Throwing a hood over his face again, Sephiroth dismissed all anger, although now three hotheads knew he was in Nevers.

Leastwise the waffles were still warm.

When he got back to the tavern room Genesis has already awoken, flashing a gloomy smile at him.

"My head hurts," he explained, running a hand through tangled auburn hair and pulling the blanket over his chin. Azure eyes dully gleamed, shifting from the knight to the barren wall behind his back. "Sometimes I want to forget who I am and..."

Sephiroth leaned over, kissing his lover on the lips, sparing from all explanations.

"I brought you waffles. Eat while they're still warm."

Genesis sat up on the bed and broke off a piece with his fingers, hungrily swallowing it.

"It's delicious," mocking azure eyes riveted on the knight's face, "but I am sure you didn't seek me out to bring fresh breakfast into my bed."

"I didn't. I found out who was spying on you the other day."

His lover's hand stopped half way with another piece of waffle.

"Tell me who it is and I'll make sure tomorrow he isn't breathing." As sluggish as Genesis was before so dithering he was now, strained and deadly.

Sephiroth pushed the heavy waterfall of silver hair back and settled in the small armchair. Just as he suspected, his irascible lover jumped into hasty conclusions.

"It isn't that easy. Lorenzo, the Lombard, sent _me_ after you," he raised his hand, forestalling Genesis' angry words. "I agreed because my family owes him money, but I am handing you over to him no sooner than the sun starts rising in the west."

His redheaded lover relaxed, amusing him once again with an unpredictable reaction to his words. The knight thought they'd have an argument.

"His name doesn't ring a bell. What did I do to a rich merchant?"

"He claims you disgraced his niece," it was Sephiroth's turn to frown. "Which brings me back to another question – how much of your past I still don't know and how many times I shall end up dealing with your mistakes and crimes?"

Genesis placed a small piece of waffle in his mouth, more content and proud than anything else.

"You amuse me so much at times, Sephiroth." With a quiet laugh he touched his face in a truly narcissistic gesture. "Do you think that with my looks I need to force anyone?" Then he turned serious, clearly trying to remember something. "I had a parish for a year in Dijon. A sweet young girl used to come to my sermons every Sunday and Tuesday, and such a devout soul she was that we stayed afterwards, discussing the Bible and various _spiritual_ matters."

"You mean, the Song of Songs was your favourite passage to, hm, discuss," Sephiroth teased his lover with a subtle smile hidden in the edges of thin lips. Genesis laughed again.

"Your acumen knows no end." He slowly chewed the rest of the waffles, revelling in the situation he created. "But, mind you, we just _discussed_. Thereupon one day she invited me to her house as her personal confessor and to my utter _surprise_ during the first shrift admitted to have had inappropriate thoughts about me. Naiveté, Sephiroth, is this world's only charm."

The wolfish grin on rich lips stretched wider, and the knight took a deep breath so much unchaste suggestion was just in his lover's smile.

"I think I could guess the rest."

"Some parents believe that if they separate their children from the vileness of this Earth," now Genesis was clearly mocking, "the fruit they procreated would remain untouched and vestal. Poor creature didn't even know what to do with her body and all desires it begot, yet she was an able and eager learner and I taught her much and with much pleasure." Sephiroth shivered from the low melody in the rich voice, from watching feline movements lavishly endowed with playful impetuosity, from drowning in softly glistening sky-blue eyes, so deceptively chaste, so openly salacious under the mask. The conversation they were having wasn't helping at that. "Even if I tried, I wouldn't be able to remember her name, but I am sure she had relatives from some rich Italian merchant guild."

"How did you…"

"… leave? Naiveté might be this world's charm but is sure as Hell tedious." Genesis gracefully threw off the blankets and rose, certainly completely naked, bathing in rays of the morning sun and dancing specks of dust. "After we were discovered one night, I understood it was time to flee and I am not the type who regrets about such _losses_."

From the elegant line of slender shoulders to the slim waist and narrow thighs, it was all Genesis, in subtle mercurial forms and gestures, in flames and irony. Suddenly Sephiroth found it hard to think about anything else besides his lover standing with his back to him.

"I can feel you watching, you know," Genesis quietly breathed out without turning. "It feels like scorching pricks under my skin."

"Genesis," unable to tear his eyes off the slender frame, Sephiroth swallowed hard, his throat dry. "You are being hunted down and it seems to concern you little." A carefree shrug was a good enough answer. "Nevertheless it concerns me."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. Yet in the meantime I believe you should stay in the hut and show up in Nevers as rarely as possible."

Genesis derisively chuckled.

"Only if you stay there with me."

"I can't…"

"Then don't expect me to."

Vexed, Sephiroth rose; he tried to reason with his lover but all his efforts seemed futile.

"Genesis, if you…" He began, finding a long slender finger pressed to his lips the next moment. His lover's proximity became tantalizing.

"I am not in the mood to argue, so after I finish my matters in the city, I shall wait for you in the hut." Breath hot on his skin, smile sly on mellow rich lips Genesis neared, biting at his earlobe. "But you'd better find a solution fast or I might lose my patience."

It didn't take much for both of them to unwind and unleash their ardour, kneeling on the bed one beside another and as Sephiroth abruptly entered his lover from behind, nearly impaling him, Genesis arched, throwing his head back onto his shoulder, crying out as his free palm reached out to roughly pleasure his lover between his parted legs, hips and hands joined in sweet blissful unity. Moaning and panting from sheer power and eagerness with which the redhead accepted his thrusts, Sephiroth inhaled the strong intoxicating scent of auburn hair on his shoulder, thinking that it was everything but chaste.

* * *

From the corner of her eyes Marguerite could see her maiden, Kathy, cradling and feeding her three months old son. The bundle in her hands was so small and fragile, as her own child once was. Her attention diverted, Marguerite missed the moment as the needle slipped out of her fingers and painfully prickled her skin. Gasping, she watched a small bloody rose bloom on the plump tip of her thumb.

Gentle warm wind blew through the opened window, carrying with it pleasant aromas of summer flowers, and the curtains with the yellow lion she has sewn were flying in its gusts. One of her stepsons flaxen undershirts was torn after his spars and Marguerite was mending it in place of the castle seamstress. Not that she understood why men loved the fighting so much.

"Kathy, bring me a small basin of water and a towel." She ordered her maiden, putting the shirt aside. "I'll hold your son."

Kathy dropped a curtsey and handed the boy, who was wrapped in layers of warm blankets, over to her. The child's eyes were huge and blue, his skin soft and lips rosy. He looked at her, waving his tiny hand and uttering a meaningless whimper, likely, missing his mother's attention. Marguerite gently kissed his forehead.

He was so healthy and beautiful, she thought with jealousy, unlike most of the degenerating heirs of the Capetian blood. Even her son, Louis, looked pale and sickly after his birth, but she preferred to blame her husband for all flaws.

Tenderly cradling the infant in her arms, Marguerite came up to the window and pointed towards the plump white spot in the sky, one of the many, unhurriedly sliding away to the celestial distance beyond her sight.

"These are fleecy clouds," the baby smiled, mimicking her gestures.

She used to dream how hers and Sephiroth's children would look like, whether they would have inherited his magnificent silver hair and emerald eye, his strength, his flawlessness. Her stepson should have been born a king. Falling into a reverie, Marguerite missed the moment when Kathy returned and gave the infant back with reluctance.

"What's his name?"

"Étienne, milady." The maiden said with downcast eyes. She was English but gave her son a French name.

Marguerite washed her bloodied hand and carefully wiped it with the soft towel.

"Isn't our castle cobbler your husband?" Kathy's face beamed with joy, inciting another wave of jealousy to rise in her heart. Why could she, the daughter of some spinner or smith of humble origin, have simple human happiness, that same happiness the daughter of kings was denied? At times Marguerite wished Sephiroth was a herdsman and all they had to take care of were their children and a flock of sheep. "Read something to me, Kathy."

"Does milady want me to continue with William's of Aquitaine poems?"

She nodded, returning to mending Sephiroth's undershirt, yet before her maiden even picked up the book, there was a brief commotion outside her bedchamber, faint shuffling off feet and clanging of metal, and Alfonso, Louis' vassal strolled in.

Alfonso was one of those men who were devoted to her more than to her husband or stepson, because of her beauty and the romantic valour of youth. Marguerite always kept them close, from time to time giving them an incentive or encouraging their shy harmless courting. They could be of some use at times.

"Kathy, leave us." She ordered her maiden upon meeting the young man's eyes. Alfonso spoke with a deep bow after hearing the door close with a thud.

"Milady, remember you asked me to tell you if we saw your stepson in Nevers…"

Marguerite didn't stay to hear the rest of Alfonso's words, flinging out of the bedroom and nearly rushing towards the stables.

Perhaps, she could finally see who Sephiroth changed her for.

* * *

A young girl in her early twenties opened the door when Sephiroth persistently knocked. She was wearing a long high-necked dress of light blue colour and her hair was pinned up with a golden comb. The knight wondered if he was met by Lorenzo's niece.

"Come on in, messire." She prattled, letting her eyes linger on his face, studying him with such sweet gullibility. He placed a kiss on her fingers, light and chaste one, a sign of his aristocratic mien rather than any intention to court her. As always when he bent over too low, silver hair cascaded over his face and when the knight pushed it back, therein stood Lorenzo himself.

Sephiroth followed his seemingly cordial host, knowing that after hearing what he had to say, the merchant's behaviour was bound to change.

Inside Lorenzo's house was even more sumptuous than outside, his furniture of exquisite Italian craftsmanship and tapestries of thinnest wool. Exquisite painting hung on the walls, varying from the bright sceneries to the portraits of the merchant's forefathers. The luxurious décor lacked only one significant detail that would always separate the richest merchants and the poorest knights, even if formally placing the latter closer to the king and benefits of nobility – the ancestral coat of arms.

The Lombard guided Sephiroth to his study, jammed with bookshelves and chests with papers other than books, where the merchant seemed to have been working before the knight came.

"I hope you have good news concerning the matter we discussed the day before."

At once the knight felt annoyed with his ever-present pleasant smile. They were talking about Genesis' life and the voluble Lombard behaved himself, as though it was nothing but another successful trade deal of his.

The study was dark, the oak armchair and burnished cherry-wood table matching the brown curtains behind which the light was pitifully throbbing as a bird in a cage, unable to flow into the secluded room. Lorenzo picked up a goblet, offering him another but Sephiroth politely refused, showing that the conversation which brought him to the merchant's house would be tepid at best.

"I am here to talk about Genesis but more on my behalf than on yours, Lorenzo."

His cold words engendered a dissatisfied grimace to briefly contort the sleek face.

"I thought we had a deal. You bring Genesis, or however you called him, to me and I forget about a thousand livres your mother has recently borrowed for the needs of your military campaign."

Sephiroth folded his arms and settled in the armchair.

"Aren't you a French patriot?" He pried with a thin smirk.

Lorenzo sipped from the goblet, a smile on his lips even more artificial now, lacking any sincerity, like a painted expression on a porcelain doll.

He's been already thinking of porcelain dolls, Sephiroth mused, absently touching his forehead and brushing the silver lock off it, with regard to Genesis, but his lover was different in a way he couldn't explain. Different, deeper, posessing more profundity than the shallow Lombard and with that proving to him that the porcelain doll was just a mask.

"We all are French patriots to some extend, aren't we? Just like we are caring parents to some extend, or hypocrites, or, say, priests." It seemed Lorenzo decided to prevaricate and jettison with unsavoury excuses. "Cupidity measures that extend, Sephiroth, for money rules modern society. Both men and kings are powerless without gold. Who would follow them aside from a small group of devoted fanatics, if they suddenly lost money? And what men are willing to do for gold and diamonds is disparate with what they would do for their families and beloved, the latter a lot poorer and pettier, of course? Wouldn't you agree with me?"

"Hardly, Lorenzo. Whilst you are willing to forget about the power of personal strength and influence, about patriotism, I am not." Sephiroth dropped coolly. His only concern was his lover's fate, the rest – Lorenzo's world-views included – he cared little about.

"But isn't money the reason I owe your presence to on this pleasant day?"

"No," a cold smirk froze on thin lips. "I actually came to tell you I have my own issues with Genesis."

"Such as?"

"Six years ago he got into my house the same way he did into your, apparently. Disguising himself as a monk, he stole valuable jewellery, the heirloom that belonged to my family since the times of Hugh Capet."

Lorenzo hemmed, pouring himself more wine.

"So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we play a simple chess game," inwardly it made him cringe, the very notion of playing a game where the stake was his lover's fate, yet the knight flawlessly maintained his self-possession, "and let it determine who has the right to decide this monk's lot."

Lorenzo shook his head, his smile suddenly gone.

"I know your reputation as an excellent chess player. I am not accepting any deals thus."

Emerald eyes dangerously narrowed and the merchant lowered his gaze first, but it changed little. Lorenzo made up his mind.

Sephiroth swiftly rose with clear intentions to leave.

He'd have to think of something else.

"You gave me that idea, remember? In the armourer's store I asked your advice on how to hunt the boar or a fox and you told me to rely on my hounds." The merchant was smiling again. "You are my hound now. That is the power of gold, Sephiroth."

Emerald eyes flashed with icy anger but all he could do was bite his lower lips and clench his fists underneath the cape. Right now he was powerless but with those words Lorenzo has just permanently earned his dislike.

"We shall see, Lorenzo."

The calm statement would have seemed a threat to anyone who knew him better, yet the merchant noticed nothing, seeing him out immediately.

Leaving, Sephiroth suddenly thought that Lorenzo rose too fast and that in this world dust was the first one to fly up.

Dust and feathers.

* * *

Marguerite came home late, vexed and disappointed. Her trip to Nevers proved to be futile; at best she could say she spotted her stepson's silver cloak once in the crowd of the inhabitants, but never even had the chance to catch sight of his mistress. Leaving her steed to the care of grooms, she headed for her bedchamber, hoping that Sephiroth has already returned and that he would be in a more forgiving mood.

Yet instead she came face to face with her husband and he clearly was angry.

"Where were you, Marguerite?" He demanded, voice vibrating with ire.

Her heart sank, but she forced a smile, her most charming smile to placate Louis.

"I was in Nevers, dearest husband."

"What matters have been bringing you there two days in succession?"

"Oh, just silly matters," Marguerite placed her narrow palm on her husband's forearm, fawning onto him, desperately trying to win more time to think of a better excuse. "I needed more thread for my quilt…"

"Then why didn't you send Kathy of any of my servants?!" Louis pushed her aside with nearly tangible disgust. "I believe you were spying on my stepson!"

"What makes you…"

"Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I've never noticed how you look at him, how you talk to him, how you _flirt_ with him?!" His eyes were dark with rage, and Marguerite shrank from fright. In such state he could hit her.

"I never…"

"Don't lie to me, woman!" Louis hitched her chin up, forcing to meet his burning glance, his grip ruthless. "All troubles come from your likes; the Bible calls you harlots and creatures of flesh not for nothing! I only wished you had the virtues of your mother!"

Marguerite was on the verge of breaking into tears, her lower lip pitifully trembling and eyes aglisten. Seeing her like that softened her husband's ire – after all, Louis wasn't as obdurate as some other nobles - and he let go of her, taking a step back.

"I didn't trust you, but, thank God, I always trusted Sephiroth."

He was gone after that, leaving her alone sobbing and shedding bitter tears.

* * *

Genesis noticed them at once, the signs of fatigue, the worry in emerald eyes, as his lover slipped through the door of the desolated hut and settled on the bed without even bothering to undress.

"I am tired, Genesis," Sephiroth answered a silent question in azure eyes, placing the bastard sword in the corner beside the small fireplace.

The redhead felt sudden warmth, climbing behind his lover and gently running his hand through long ashen hair, silken and cool to his touch.

"Whatever you were doing didn't turn out as you expected it would, did it?"

"No, it didn't." Genesis thought he heard a mocking note in that deep voice.

"Were you concerned about me and Lorenzo?"

"Of course, I was. I have to do something." Sephiroth insisted in his always serious manner. It stirred more warm sensations, light and playing different colours as starlight on the glassy surface of the night lake.

Genesis placed his fingers onto his lover's neck, rubbing it ever so gently until his lover relaxed and leaned into his touch. He had a sudden idea.

"Hand me over to him…"

"What?" Dither is that deep voice always rang so amusing.

"I said – hand me over to the merchant."

"Why I…"

"Trust me on this," the redhead honeyed into Sephiroth's ear, unsure, however, whether he was able to persuade the knight, then chuckled. "The least of all I want to harm myself."

…Later at night in Sephiroth's embrace he was dreaming about cages and Lucifer, the fallen morning star.


	14. Chapter XIII: The end and the beginning

_Summary_: Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_ The love poem in this chapter is NOT mine, God forbid, haha. Yet I hope you'll enjoy that little scene. ;-)

* * *

_**Chapter XI**__**II.**_

_**The **__**end and the beginning.**_

"_One of the greatest victories you can gain over someone is to beat him at politeness__ and wit." (Author unknown to me)._

It has been drizzling since early morning and under the light veil of the incessant, even if warm, summer rain the castle looked woebegone with mossy stones standing out darker and loopholes blindly and listlessly staring at its labouring inhabitants.

Silver hair trailing him, Sephiroth descended the stairs and before throwing the hood over his head darted a morose glance at the dull grey skies. He disliked rain which turned roads into impassable marsh, as happened during the so-called 'mud campaign' his _brother_, Louis X, rashly and stupidly waged against Flanders some decades ago. Feet sank in the slush and champing and squelch followed his steps, as the knight neared the rows of the infantrymen, bristling with steel tips of lances. Strolling along the line, Sephiroth intently peered at each face, as though trying to seek out weaknesses hiding beneath the helmet slits.

It was the third detachment of his stepfather's vassals which was due to arrive that week. All men seemed to be in good shape, not too old and not too young, trained, well-armed and fit for the upcoming engagements. Satisfied, the silver-haired knight approached the small group of horsemen at the head of the infantry column, recognizing Sir Thomas and baron de Crecy.

"Good to see you again, Viscount du Bugey." The baron dismounted, took off his helmet, bearing somewhat rough tanned face with a curly beard which gave his features slight refinement, though hardly comparable to sophistication of Sephiroth's chiselled ones. He could come across as a slowcoach if not for the lively spark in dark nearly coal black eyes.

The viscount ceremoniously inclined his head.

"The quarters for the infantrymen have been prepared at the village. Meanwhile the Count would like to welcome you to the Chateau de Thil."

By the time last orders have been issued the damp silver cape adhered to Sephiroth's armour, hindering his movements, and he pulled it down with slight annoyance. If the weather continued to get worse, they might end up repeating the humiliating 'mud campaign' once again.

"Has there been any trouble at Crecy?" He asked on the way to the castle.

"After that incident it's been quiet and calm again, messire," replied Thomas and spat out the straw he was chewing.

So he wouldn't have to worry about questions being asked about Genesis' fate, Sephiroth thought, absently circling the pool of mud in the grass with droplets dancing on its surface.

He was still anxious about Genesis' crazy intentions to fool Lorenzo; although last night he was nearly convinced, this morning so many possible flaws came to his mind that Sephiroth could not stop worrying.

Inside the servant took his wet cape off and showed their guests the way to the knight's hall. Sephiroth wasn't staying for dinner, having found no delight in either listening to the plethora of words the baron and his stepfather were known for or sitting by the side of silent Marguerite while Genesis' fate remained undecided. Acceptance of his stepmother's crime was sinking in reluctantly, leaving coldness and emptiness instead of the indignation he felt before, yet it still was not enough for forgiveness.

Having ascended to his bedchambers, the knight found his squire sitting at his table and writing something on the piece of parchment. Hearing him enter, the youth hastily leapt up to his feet and clutched the vellum to his chest in a desperate attempt to conceal the visible proof of his misbehaviour.

"What are you doing in my room?" The stern notes in his deep voice and the frown on otherwise flawless forehead were enough for Alber to blush like a rose and hide his gullibly guilty look between the pages of parchment he's been scribbling on.

"Forgive me, messire, I was just… I was waiting for you… to," his voice trailed off to a barely distinguished embarrassed whisper, "to ask for your advice."

The youth looked so piteously and culpably that Sephiroth just shook his head with a light forgiving smile to abet him.

"What is it you wanted an advice for, Alber?"

"Messire is so kind." The blush on the young face deepened if that was even possible. Shifting from foot to foot, he unsuccessfully struggled to find better words to express a request until Sephiroth touched the youth's shoulder in as encouraging gesture as he could allow himself. "I was writing a… a love poem, messire, and wanted to ask you what rhyme suited… the best…"

He faltered under the gaze of emerald eyes and, looking up, Sephiroth realized he's been staring too intently, slightly bewildered from the squire's words or amused, or both.

"There's little I can do, but I'll try…"

A forced bashful smile found its way onto Alber's lips. "Thank you, messire. I… I'll read it for you." It took him a few more moments to muster up his courage and give utterance to the lines.

"_Cover my eyes with words,_

_Leave them to fade, my love_," he looked up to see whether Sephiroth was laughing, and it took him a lot of strength to maintain a deadpan, serious expression for his squire's sake. "_In blizzard and storms I'm yours_… Then," he flung his arms up in genuine desperation, nearly scattering parchment sheets on the floor, "I don't know a good enough rhyme for the word 'love' besides 'glove'. What do you think, messire?"

Though tempted to laugh so unbelievably silly the whole matter with the love poem was, Sephiroth thoughtfully hemmed, watching his squire with lively mirthful sparks dancing in emerald eyes at the mere thought of how Genesis might have responded to such an _unusual_, to say the least, request.

"There is 'laugh', which might suite your poem, or," he hung his head, no longer able to hide a smile resolutely curling the edges of thin lips, "'bluff' and 'snuff', but I don't think any…"

Alber beamed.

"Thank you, messire! I must have really been too agitated – this is just my first love poem – to forget about the rhyme 'laugh'. You should definitely start writing poems yourself, messire."

Sephiroth couldn't help but chuckle. Though many knights practiced writing odes to feminine beauty and charm, he never found enough words or inspiration to express himself in a poem, not that he really thought about it once.

"You may go, Alber."

The youth sprightly bowed and, humming a joyful ditty, dashed out of the room. Sephiroth followed him with his gaze, that same smile roaming on thin lips, but as the door closed the knight's face darkened. Movements sharp and controlled, he opened the drawer and, shaking the green cloth off, hitched the new flamboyant sword to his belt. The dagger followed, disappearing behind the steel leg shield. The dark dry cloak and leather gloves completed his dressing.

He had to be prepared even for the impossible, such as fighting his way through Lorenzo's servants.

On the way out Sephiroth reminded himself to get shackles. He wouldn't want to bring Genesis in as a venerable guest.

* * *

It seemed to both of them that Lorenzo awaited their arrival, his sleek face shining with anticipation and content the moment he saw the redhead, chained and resigned to his fate, stepping over the threshold of his house. Genesis played his role perfectly, hiding behind a dreary expression of complete obedience and humbleness. With his shoulders stooping he looked somewhat older and broken, nearly hurting Sephiroth for he's never seen his lover so hopelessly defeated.

Their steps echoed loudly in the hall, clangs cutting through the quiet, and the further Sephiroth went the less desire he felt to play the redhead's roles to the end.

Lorenzo's study seemed even bleaker with candles lit during the day and monotonous shuffling of raindrops being the only sound disturbing the leaden stillness. The Lombard invited them in and, as servants took the damp cloak off his shoulders, produced a vellum sheet with his personal seal, confirming that the deal has been formally documented.

"I never doubted your persistence, Sephiroth," he said with pleased notes, "so I prepared the papers in advance."

The knight took them with a dry smile and, having carefully folded them, hid in the pocket.

"There is only one detail left and he is all yours, Lorenzo."

The merchant eyed him suspiciously.

"Which one?"

"I want to hear your niece saying this was the same man who forced her."

Lorenzo relaxed and reached out for the bell.

"Ah, certainly, messire. Your desire is understandable."

A stout man in a dark-blue cotardie entered the study after the bell rang. "Tell Blanche messire wants to see her and make sure she is properly dressed."

While the merchant was speaking to his servant, Sephiroth exchanged glances with Genesis, who remained silent as they agreed the day before, feeling a bit relieved upon noticing the confident spark flashing in cerulean depths.

"You bestowed her with a French name," the knight thoughtfully observed after the servant left, taking a seat in the armchair.

"We are French patriots, just like I told you the other day." Lorenzo poured dry wine into two goblets and handed one to him. "I hope you shall agree to share this wine with me now and give my utmost gratitude to your stepfather."

"Certainly." Eyes fixed on the portrait of a woman in her late thirties, Sephiroth took a sip from the goblet. The wine was excellent, and he did not fail to voice out his content.

"It is from the finest hundred years' old collection." Genesis, heretofore quietly standing by the door, shook his chained hands, earning an exasperated glance from the Lombard. "If you keep wondering what his punishment would be, rest assured he isn't leaving the jail until…"

The door to the study opened again, and Blanche in that same high-necked blue dress he saw the other day slipped through, interrupting the merchant by dropping a deep curtsey.

"Uncle, messire," she greeted them, her fingers playing with her dress, betraying the nervousness, "I heard you…"

Her eyes fell on Genesis. Then there was a quiet gasp and a blush, lavishly blooming on pale cheeks, giving her pretty face a momentary charm, making her look stunning just for one instant. Sephiroth unnoticeably took a deep breath, for the girl reacted perfectly, just as his lover suspected she would, yet couldn't say he didn't feel pity for her. Yes, Genesis had that effect on people and he couldn't say he's never fallen for the redhead's beguiling charisma, which flashed in a smile on rich lips and a bedazzling spark in cerulean eyes meant for him and him only, not for Blanche.

"Genesis!" All of a sudden the quiet bashful girl disappeared in a joyful exclamation, all decorum but forgotten, bewildering him, leaving Lorenzo flabbergast and, the knight could have sworn, puzzling even the redhead. "It's been so many years…"

Genesis reached out to her with the smile meant for him.

"Blanche," the sweetest enveloping honey in just this word could have brought any girl to her knees.

Sephiroth noticed the deep frown on the merchant's face yet he recovered fast, snapping, "That is enough, Blanche, go back to your room."

It was too late.

"Blanche, please, stay, I am asking you." Lazily twiddling with his silver hair, Sephiroth ignored the withering glance Lorenzo shot at him. "I believe you can help me clear up an important matter about Genesis."

Her face was wreathed in a smile.

"Genesis is my mentor, he…"

"Blanche, I believe we've heard enough!" Lorenzo repeated sternly and, seeing how the girl was taken aback, the knight decided not to delay his blow any longer.

"Tell me, Blanche, did Genesis force you to do _anything_ with him?"

"Force me? Who told you that?" The girl's voice shook with indignation. '_So much for the purity_,' Sephiroth thought to himself with sarcasm, yet emerald eyes flashed triumphantly. Blanche has just saved her _mentor's_ life without even knowing it. "Did you lie to messire, uncle?"

Lorenzo shifted his angry eyes from him to Genesis, to his niece, finding no support whatsoever. "This man disgraced you and now you are telling me it wasn't…"

Blanche was on the verge of bursting into tears, trembling from head to toes and nervously clutching Genesis' hand.

"He didn't disgrace me!" Sephiroth winced so loud her yell rang. "You put me in a recluse cell, buried me in a _grave_, and this man was kind enough to show me freedom, show me _life_ and you call it a disgrace! You and my mother are so sanctimonious, always thinking you know what's best for me and I hate her and I hate you, uncle!"

Crying, the girl darted out of the room, her sobs heard in the hallway, fainting into vague whimpers and then into grave silence. Genesis was smirking now, an elated glimpse in azure eyes so delightfully yet unnoticeably shared between them as Sephiroth coldly spoke.

"I believe you have much to explain, Lorenzo."

The merchant looked slightly shaken, proving that even in such a self-seeking man hearing his niece hated him stirred leastwise discomfort. However, the Lombard wasn't easily baffled. In a moment he was smiling again, more dangerous since he was cornered now.

"My oldest sister, Leticia, raised her daughter with exceptional manners. You must understand our concerns and," Sephiroth nodded, unsure what the merchant was getting at, "how painful it is for us to hear such disastrous news. They were committing a sordid adultery, which still has to be amended by being turned into legal relationship. Although we definitely had a different husband in mind for Blanche, her reputation is more valuable. Genesis will have to marry my niece."

Lorenzo evinced he wasn't giving up on punishing the redhead, all talk about marriage a plausible, however, solid disguise yet Sephiroth didn't have the time to comprehend how frightened he really was because Genesis broke silence with one of the most scathingly sarcastic replicas he's ever heard passing those lush lips.

"I apologize for reminding you about something so obvious, _gallant sire_, but clergy cannot be bound with ties of matrimony."

Flooded with both relief and mirth, Sephiroth barely constrained himself from uttering a laugh so dazzlingly triumphant Genesis' smile shone and so genuinely taken aback Lorenzo looked, all his politeness dispelled as a cloud of dust in the vehement gust of wind.

The sensation of triumph didn't last long though, yet not until they were back in the hut did the knight let it show.

* * *

Even underneath layers of warm blankets made of best Flemish wool Marguerite was quivering as a pitiable withering leaf, a piece of parchment clutched in her hand as though being the only straw she could cling onto.

It was dark in her bedchambers, crimson sheens from the wan flames in the fireplace casting the sinister shadows onto the décor of her room and in them she fancied she saw black deuces that came to devour her loathsome soul and carry it to Gehenna.

How could she look at Louis after what she'd done? What would she tell Sephiroth after it is over?

Streaming silent tears burnt her cheeks and Marguerite felt like they'd leave blisters on her skin so hot they were, so poignant.

It was better to feel this pain than the one tearing through her heart. Sephiroth hasn't forgiven her yet and now he was going to a war waged by foolish men against foolish men, and such a waste of grandeur and life it was.

Marguerite chocked with tears. What if he doesn't come back? She wouldn't survive having to stand and look at the corpse of her son and beloved. She would die.

She did not want to die.

"What have I done, Sephiroth?" A breath, stolen from the dying, a moth, pitifully fluttering its wings already scorched by the candle flame, a flower slowly wilting in the desert, it was her hope, her love, her faith.

Her.

Everything.

On the thin piece of vellum three words stood out, dark against the morbid whiteness and a verdict to her twenty six years of more or less happy marriage.

'_It is __done.'_

* * *

"Check and mate, Sephiroth!"

Lively, vibrant, the air around him scintillating from the exultant aura, Genesis threw the ugly wig off to the side, shook his auburn head. The damp cassock flew in the opposite direction, torn off with an impetuous gesture, graceful and defiant in its candid nakedness.

Having wrapped himself in the warm blanket, the redhead comfortably settled on the bed and stretched out his slender legs to the sound of heavy thunder drums.

Outside the storm has just gained strength.

"Let's raise our goblets for foolishness and naiveté, because where would we be if those didn't exist?"

Sephiroth took off the wet clothing and silently set about removing the steel plates, earning a suspicious look of sparkling azure eyes for his reticence. So beautiful they were, Genesis' eyes, he suddenly thought for no reason at all, unlacing leather strings. Despite what he's seen and had to do he could still appreciate those little nearly escaping his heed details, such as ardent glimmer in his lover's eyes.

"You look gloomy, as though we haven't just made a fool out of Lorenzo. Why?" Genesis demanded, having heard no answer from him. Sephiroth inaudibly sighed, slipping out of the heavy breastplate.

"He is not the type who accepts defeats. He is your mortal enemy now."

"I wish you at least dissembled you are glad even if you aren't." Dissatisfaction in his voice obvious, Genesis reached out for the bottle of Burgundy and uncorked it. "What is the point of living your life constantly looking over your shoulder in fright? The hell with Lorenzo!"

"I am worried about you, Genesis."

The redhead grimaced as though having tasted something sour.

"Don't. I can take care of myself, you know."

Why didn't Genesis wish to understand that his life was not of some indifferent matter to him now? He looked at the redhead intently then quietly breathed out, defeated. "I know."

"Is there something you are not telling me again?"

Sephiroth wished he knew. Having slipped onto the bed by his lover's side, the viscount inarmed the redhead tightly, bringing him closer until the auburn head rested on his chest to whisper into the softest of tresses a single word "Maybe."

A shiver ran though Genesis' pliant body, all playful flames in his arms again.

"Let's forget about the merchant."

Sephiroth closed his eyes with a dismissive smile, feeling Genesis' breath on his lips, then the redhead's slow caress, turning bolder and more avid to feel each inch of his skin with his lips. When Sephiroth's arms slid underneath the woollen blanket his lover settled between his thighs and shot a languorous azure glance at him

"You won't regret, I promise."

Genesis' skilled hand slipped through layers of cloth, eager and playful, teasing with just a subtle touch, enticing with just a hint, fomenting a wave of heat to rise from the bottom to the top, through muscles and flesh to ring as a faint slightly pleading moan into lush lips he was fervently kissing.

Sephiroth opened his eyes, aroused just by watching the woollen cloth slip down from the venereal body in his arms. Thin lips half-opened, head thrown back, silver scattered around them, he was ready to plunge into the sweet oblivion with Genesis' slick tongue on his nipples guiding him when a loud sound tore through his ears.

It seemed a thunder roar at first, but then there was a lightning cutting through his eyes followed by utter darkness and the sound of rain whipping the walls of the hut. Blind for an instant, Sephiroth moaned, tearing himself away from the half-naked redhead and groping for the sword. Genesis wasn't wasting time either, hurling a bottle in the direction of the invaders. An acute yell, telling him the redhead didn't miss, was followed by the dull sound of shattering clay.

Sephiroth leapt up on the bed to see three intruders armed with short swords, two of them standing in their stances and the third one lying on the floor, unconscious, blood on his head. The bastard sword in his hand described a swishing blazing arc, landing on the short sword just above the assassin's shoulder and causing the attacker to duck. A second man launched from the side, the knight kicked him in the face, freeing the sword, and while the assassin desperately attempted to recover, delivered a thwart blow, drawing a wavy line with the flamboyant part of the blade across the latter's chest. Fountain of blood gushed from the wound, smirching the wooden wall with an ugly blot.

The third assassin tried to flee; Genesis spurted after him yet fell, tangled in the woolen blanket.

"Sephiroth, he cannot get away!" His lover's desperate yell blended with another thunder peal and a ghostly flash of lightning danced in the doorway. He knew that.

Having picked up a dagger he left on the table, the knight dashed out of the hut immediately after the intruder and threw a misericord by guesswork into pitch darkness. Cold streams of rain lashed his bare chest and face, hindering his sight, yet the heavy splash somewhere ahead told him he miraculously hadn't missed.

Sephiroth plodded blindly through mud and pools of water to find a body withering and moaning on the ground. Throwing his dripping silver hair back, he bent over and broke off the assassin's death struggles. In coal black darkness horses neighed, theirs or assassins' he didn't know.

In the hut Genesis has dealt the final blow to the last enemy and together they dragged the corpses into the stormy darkness. Then they leaned the broken door against the doorway trying to keep the rain and coldness out, yet a hole wherethrough a small boy might squeeze still gaped.

Then Sephiroth noticed that Genesis forearm was bleeding. Tearing a piece of his undershirt off, he gently wiped out all blood and put it to the wound, regretting they had no water or wine left.

The hut looked ruined with the table overturned and blood all over the floor and one wall, the last sanctuary of his peace stolen from him. The knight felt a sudden pang in his chest.

Something ended that evening.

"How did they find us?" Genesis asked, all mirth and carelessness gone from his voice, his deep azure eyes, his awkward quick smile.

Sephiroth moved the chair up to the fireplace, threw more firewood and relaxed, leaving his long dripping silver hair to dry near the warm crackling flames.

"They must have been following you. That is why I insisted on taking our separate ways from Nevers. Lorenzo is fast, too fast for my liking."

Genesis cosily yet wearily settled on his lap, dropped his auburn head onto his shoulder. His body was quivering, from chill of the night or from the sudden quite frightening ordeal, he could not tell.

"I want to sleep, Sephiroth."

The knight gently ran his hand along his lover's bare back, flicking away small droplets, clear as globules of morning dew.

"I am going to war in a week and you are going with me."

"How?"

Sephiroth soothingly stroked his lover's hair.

"Any army needs three things – doctors, whores and priests."

Genesis finally regained his unabashed equanimity, quirking in his usual way.

"As whom would you want to see me there, as a harlot or a priest?"

For some reasons the silver-haired knight didn't find it funny, more so when his gaze fell onto the scarlet pattern of blood on the wall.

"Don't even think of cheating on me…"

There must have been something in his voice and in slightly narrowed emerald eyes that Genesis kept silence, finding nothing to say, moment after moment of crackling flames and whipping rain slipping between them.

None voiced out what both thought about – if Sephiroth wasn't with Genesis that night, the redhead would have, likely, been slain.

…In the morning they piled up the bodies in the hut and torched it. Watching it burn, flames merrily throwing their tongues upwards to the cloudy skies, Sephiroth thought with deep regret that a part of his life when he was meeting with Genesis to spend quiet evenings together in seclusion, in their own world, has just ended.

Yet something new began.

It was like that always.

Something ended, the other began anew.

* * *

_**A/N****:**_ Can someone tell me, please, if it is correct to use a 'her' pronoun for any ship, aircraft carriers included?


	15. Chapter XIV: Army and priests

_Summary_: Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_ Well, in the next chapters I'm going to write a lot about the military campaign, so there'll be loads of tactics. Yay! ;P Damn, reviving a battle as it happened in real history is fascinating (esp. having a brilliant military leader at my disposal)! On a more warning side – expect morbid cruelty, bloody imagery, angst and all that kind of fun stuff.

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Caen – _the second largest city in Normandy in XIV cent. France.

_Seige of Caen_ – 26th July, 1346. Another Edward's III victory during the Normandy campaign.

_Roué(fr.)_ – scapegrace.

_Arriere-ban_ – in France there was no constant army at that time, it was only in the nascent stage. So if the military engagement demanded so, the levies (aka arriere-ban) were called.

_League _– an old French measure of distance which approximately equals to 3.47 miles (5.56 km).

* * *

_**Chapter XIV.**_

_**Army and priests.**_

"_O saving Victim, open wide_

_The gate of Heaven to man below;_

_Our foes press on from every side;_

_Thy__ aid supply; Thy strength bestow." (Catholic prayer, ''O saving Host")._

Everything that concerned human beings was evanescent and volatile, from their brittle fates to their even shorter quotidian plans. Leaving the castle in the morning, Sephiroth thought he had at least four days left before their forces were to head out and join with the King's, but in the afternoon only pitiful fragments of his intentions remained when a messenger on a foamy horse arrived to deliver yet another, last quota of the grave news about the Edward's advance deep into the heart of France.

The viscount was reading in his bedchambers when, pale and panting, Alber flung the door open and forced himself to speak.

"Your father wants to see you, messire. It's something exigent and… serious."

Only a moment after Sephiroth, having wrapped himself tighter in the light woollen shirt, was already descending the stairs to the knight's hall.

Upon seeing him enter, the Count silently gestured to the nearest chair. Besides them, there was only one more man present, baron de Crecy.

The grave anxiety felt tangible in the air, twining around them as thinnest gossamer.

Once Sephiroth settled on the edge of the wooden bench, his stepfather broke the seals and hastily unfolded the vellum pages, his hands slightly trembling.

"Valliant sire," he began, keeping his voice calm, "it is upon me this grim lot hath now fallen and with deepest regret I impart the news of the fall of Caen to you. The attack began earlier than we expected led by the Prince of Wales, who was later reinforced by the Earl of Warwick. Our defence lines along the river failed at several points and soon we found ourselves outflanked and attacked from behind. Some of us, led by the gallant Robert Bertrand, managed to abscond into the old town and then to the north shore of the Somme. The Count of Eu and the Chamberlain were captured by the Englishmen; His Majesty was saddened by the loss of his closest men, yet even though their honour and reputation suffered defamation my heart rejoices that they are still alive. I am now held captive as well and owe His Majesty Edward III my utmost gratitude for letting me send this grave message. Nevertheless, I still hope this letter found you in perfect health. May God be with us all. Your humble servant and formerly a fellow roué, Bishop of Bayeux."

His stepfather took his eyes off the letter, looked at them from under the knitted bushy brows. "This is more than a message about the siege of Caen. I've been friends with the Bishop for over fifteen years now and none better than me knows that he's never been a scapegrace. He is hinting at something in this last line the captor would not let him tell otherwise." He slammed his palm against the table top, giving vent to his disappointment in the impetuous gesture. "Roué… roué… why do these clergy types have to be that smart?"

Sephiroth strained his memory and, likely, the whole tension and apprehension let him remember that name fast enough.

"The capital of Normandy is Rouen," the knight thoughtfully suggested, absently thrumming on the table. The baron gave him an approving glance and his stepfather exclaimed with relief, a deep frown disappearing from his face.

"Of course this is Rouen, Sephiroth! My old friend, your age did not affect your brilliance! I was right, he was telling me of the Edward's plans who is marching towards Rouen now." The Count gustily paced up and down the hall, crumpling the vellum page in his hands. His speech changed to nearly incoherent mumblings, in order to hear which Sephiroth had to strain his ears. "About twenty leagues between Caen and Rouen… same is between Paris and Rouen… he could be there in two weeks… Philippe has most likely ordered to proclaim the arriere-ban in Rouen… will hold… about forty leagues from here to Paris… we could be on time…"

The silver-haired knight watched his stepfather, feeling that same anxiety yet showing none of it even as the same thoughts were coursing through his mind.

How long could it take them to get to the capital?

"How can you be sure they're heading for Paris, messire?" It was baron's voice, filled with vacillation and wariness.

The Count's eyes ebulliently sparked. "Where else would that insolent bastard want to go? Paris is the heart of France. But," he added angrily, "they'll never take Paris, not while I am still breathing!"

Sephiroth was on the same mind with his stepfather that Edward would never breach the capital's defences; however, he wasn't willing to take it for granted. It meant they would have to leave as soon as tomorrow at dawn.

His stepfather halted in his tracks. "Baron, I want you to send the messengers to my other vassals with orders to turn and head for Paris at once and, Sephiroth," their eyes met over the table, "send a scout to find us a suitable place to cross Loire. Then you are free to finish your… delicate matters in Nevers. However, I expect all batallies to be ready early next morning!"

The baron complaisantly bowed and left immediately followed by the Count. Sephiroth lingered a bit longer to look through the letter one last time and on his way out ran into his stepmother.

She looked pale and weary, her usually rubicund cheeks sunken. Something has been eating her from the inside from the day they had that unfortunate conversation, yet Sephiroth was preoccupied worrying about the military campaign and his lover to make much of it.

"What happened?" His stepmother's chin wobbled as though she was about to cry. "Did you receive more grave news? I can't find Louis and… please, just tell me what had happened."

There was so much obsecration in her melodious voice that Sephiroth couldn't pass by without recognition as he was lately accustomed to.

"Caen was overrun by the English troops. We're heading out for Paris tomorrow."

Marguerite staggered and grasped the handrail for support. "Tomorrow? So… soon?"

He shrugged her complaints off, already thinking about places along Loire to send his messengers to and everything else besides his contrite stepmother.

* * *

Genesis gracefully stretched himself under the blanket and furtively stole a glance at his reticent lover, who was lying by his side dressed this time, arms and legs crossed, yet again was unable to meet his roving look. Besides having to leave the tavern room by midnight, the redhead couldn't get any other coherent words out of him.

His lover could be taciturn at times, impassive even, yet this perfunctory indifference often concealed either qualms or hurt and while Genesis preferred to voice it all out he kept those to himself, remaining an enigma behind the icy veil of emerald and silver.

However, Genesis strongly disliked to be ignored, especially in the state of curiosity and simply lying by his side, feeling his warmth and futilely guessing what has been bothering him didn't satisfy the redhead in the slightest.

Theirs was just one hour after the vesper bells echoed eleven times through the sleepy city so, feeling little desire to wait for the change in his lover's mood, Genesis resolutely reached for his shirt and slid a hand inside, having gotten his way when Sephiroth turned and rested his eyes on his face. Genesis felt his heart throbbing underneath his palm, quickly, unevenly, as though struggling to break loose from the cage.

Suddenly the redhead understood "You are frightened, aren't you?"

He wished to be proven wrong, but his tactless, even if void of the usual taunting question instigated pure censure his silver-haired knight didn't wish to hide. It meant he was right. Genesis nestled up to his lover's warm body and gently pressed his lips to the cheekbone to soften his discontent.

"I am." Sephiroth finally admitted without the expected reluctance and he couldn't refrain, teased.

"You don't strike me as the one who fears much."

"However, only fools fear nothing." Genesis felt him smiling. "In fright itself there is nothing shameful. I got used to it, in a way, got used to the war." The knight passed his hand over his chest in a subconscious gesture. "It feels like an ugly scar left by a notched rusty knife; the wound rarely hurts but the skin is no longer smooth, defaced with a repulsive knotty stigma, and… at times…" he lingered, as though trying to find the right words to express his thoughts. Genesis didn't rush his lover, feeling that it was the first time he has ever confided this pain of his to any living soul. Cool fingers found his hand, covered it gently and for a moment Genesis could only think how frail they seemed. "At times, I daresay, it feels like emptiness inside me and as though I… I cannot breathe."

The fingers on his palm were cold. Suddenly Genesis no longer wanted to continue the conversation for it begot questions he would rather not ask and doubts he would rather not feel.

"Why are you telling me this?" It took Genesis a moment to realize he was hurting himself by painfully plunging his nails into his palm.

What if one day his lover falls?

Sephiroth smiled a faint detached smile, which looked like a ghostly veil falling over his refined features, there for just a blink of an eye and then - gone.

"Because I want to. Do you not want to listen?"

"No," Genesis echoed rather sharply, embracing himself to hide his injured palm. "You are hurting yourself and you are hurting me."

He was no longer smiling, no longer looking at him open-heartedly, and Genesis could nearly hear the door closing with a creak as his sculptured visage was frozen over underneath the familiar mask.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to."

Long awkward silence ensued thereupon as Genesis was trying to understand why he had thoughtlessly said those foolish words while feeling differently. What was he trying to prove to himself? That he didn't care?

Or that he cared too much?

The knight averted his face, bereaving him of the opportunity to plunge into the sea of emerald and softness; it felt like two stars has died out and the welkin turned dark.

Why did he say those words?

They slipped from him unawares.

"Sephiroth," Genesis hated how his lover's name rang on his lips with nearly pleading notes, but nothing else besides sincerity could have torn the web of vacant coldness he has just spun around them.

The knight silently rose, wrapping himself tighter into the loose flaxen undershirt, slipped off the bed as a shadow, so suddenly human and lone as a silver lighthouse to which others were drawn like moths to the light, craving to steal a part of him yet never seeing and understanding him wholly.

Genesis followed Sephiroth to the window, clinging to his back once he stopped, prepared to explain himself if asked anything, however, the silver-haired knight softly remarked instead. "You are afraid, too, Genesis."

The redhead recoiled, eyes brightly twinkling with indignation. Why should he be afraid? He wasn't the one risking his life for some stupid cause…

He wasn't, but Sephiroth was.

"What makes you think…" he began, then suddenly dropped the lame pretence, so lame it was ignominious. Emerald eyes were staring at him now, so warm, so _knowing_, so derisive.

_You are frightened, Genesis…_

How did he see? How did he understand?

The redhead leaned forward to hide his disarray. The thin lips were warm seals on his, brittle, kindled with scarlet ardour curves, and his tongue slipped in-between them, slowly plunging into the hot moisture of the delve with the taste of giddy passion.

His arms wrapping around the chiselled neck, his fingers stroking the opulent silver tresses, his voice flowing like silken honey, Genesis whispered, asked "Don't go there, stay with me… Seph…"

Then the redhead faltered, for the first time realizing that, whereas his charm and caress stirred arousal in his lover, they had little effect on his resolve.

"Don't ask for something I cannot do for you."

"Why?! Duty is just a chain you hammered around yourself, for you owe nothing to no one, the piece of land called France included…"

Sephiroth ruefully smiled.

"Maybe, you are right, Genesis, but ask yourself who we are without any duties. Even you have them, those chains, locked tightly around your wrists."

"I don't…"

"What about your burnt mother?"

Genesis tore himself from his lover's embrace, maliciously snarling "Don't ever mention her to me!"

Why did his lover remind him about his dead mother? To hurt him? To requite for his thoughtlessly spoken words? The next moment he found himself in Sephiroth's arms again and this time he didn't struggle. His previous questions seemed foolish now. Of course, Sephiroth didn't wish to harm him.

"Forget about it, Genesis," the velvety voice was like a soothing balm gently dripping on the wound.

The redhead obediently nodded. He wished he could forget, wished so many times he lost count of them.

The sooty eyelashes fell, concealing azure flames. They slowly kissed to the sound of the bells and then Sephiroth, all matter-of-fact and calm again, straightened.

"You are meeting the carts tomorrow afternoon. I gave all necessary recommendations so no questions should be asked, and I… I have to go."

In the doorway he turned and added "Be careful, Genesis."

From the window of the tavern room Genesis watched his lover until he disappeared around the corner of the dark empty street in a pale flash of silver. Later he tried to remember why he couldn't stop his silver-haired knight from going to that war only to understand that it was impossible.

As though tangled in a cobweb, at times helpless as someone's toy, Sephiroth followed the tortuous path already walked before him by Lucifer, who had no other choice but to fall.

* * *

Marguerite was on her knees, praying. Her lips barely moved, more thoughts than words escaping them. Her fingers were slightly trembling but she paid it no heed, engrossed in a prayer, a frozen statue with wavy chestnut-colored hair hanging over the pale, preserving the traces of youthful beauty, face.

She was in the small chapel alone before the dead wooden eyes of a crucifix that stared at her with clamorous persistency. The floor underneath the prayer rug cut into her knees even through the layers of dark-green dress.

"Loving Mother of our Saviour, hear my plea, an entreaty from a mother to mother, for you had a son and you felt the suffering and the worry for his fate. You watched him take his first steps, speak his first words, shed his first tears, o Holy Mary. To Thee I pray for my son; let his sword be quick and deadly, let his strength be overwhelming and wisdom perennial. Let the foes and troubles skirt him and let the path before him be wide and clear. Attend unto my desperate cry, o Virgin Mary, and if need be take everything from me, but have mercy on him and bring him safely home." Her body was shuddering in sobbing now, tears falling onto the opened Bible where a single silver lock lay, glistening. "Have mercy on my son and bring him home safely. Please."

She wasn't praying for her husband, for it was too late to pray for his fate. The arrow has left the bow of the Goddess. Even though she desired it now, her deal with Lorenzo could not be undone.

Loud, resoundingly echoing through the hall, steps interrupted her prayer and the daughter of kings hastily wiped all moisture from her eyes and cheeks, grateful that the single candle didn't give enough light to betray her reddened eyes.

Alfonso entered, lingering on the threshold, and when she turned to greet the young man she was all politeness and wit again, the beautiful mysterious queen. His dry lips burnt her cold fingers in a light kiss as the familiar flames flickered deep in the youth's eyes, flames she wanted to see in Sephiroth's eyes when they were alone.

"Did you send for me, milady?"

It took her a lot of inner strength to smile now, but the knight needed it.

"I did, Alfonso. I have a favour to ask of you."

"Ask anything and I shall obey or die!" He exclaimed with fervour, inclining his head, hiding those non-platonic flames beneath the veil of dark lashes.

"There is no need to die, Alfonso." She uttered a lenient laugh. "It is just a small favour. I want you to keep an eye on my stepson and help him in any way without him knowing."

A golden with a dark ruby ring gave more weight to her request and the young man respectfully bowed.

"Certainly, milady."

Marguerite suddenly felt at peace. After Sephiroth comes back from this war, everything will be as she planned.

Everything will be alright.

* * *

The early dawn found Sephiroth in his bedchambers dressed, encased in full plate armour and having already finished polishing his new flamboyant sword.

From outside the blend of neigh and bellows wafted to his ears as the castle was waking unusually early, every servant busy from the evening hours through the whole night, preparing the food and amenities for the lords. The responsibilities to do the same for the regular infantrymen fell onto the inhabitants of the village, who had to slaughter cattle, hens, groom the horses and whet their weapons.

Sephiroth calmly put the comb down, straightened out his yellow and blue cape for the last time and, as he did that, the door to his bedchambers creaked, letting his stepmother inside. The knight knew she came to say her farewells, yet least of all wanted her to notice his inner tumult. She would hardly understand his fears for the upcoming campaign, the performance of troops and the outcomes of it. The war wasn't an undertaking fit for women.

The opal eyes were intently watching his face, yet Sephiroth waited for her to speak first, to set the tone for the whole conversation.

"I came to say farewell, Sephiroth."

Marguerite's words rang placidly enough and in her intentions, he hoped, there was little fallacy. She truly was just a mother right now, or ably seemed such, so when a tear rolled down her cheek, the knight handed her a clean lacy handkerchief. Her shaky fingers took it, brought to her face and the thin cloth soaked from salty moisture at once. If she loved him, he could understand her.

"Promise me, you'll be careful," searchingly peeping into his face for the sign of either softness or promise, Marguerite returned him the handkerchief and tightly squeezed his fingers. Sephiroth let it, the gesture of a desperate affection, be her reward for all the suffering she underwent and all the crimes she committed in his name. "I promise."

There was a chance they were seeing each other for the last time, and, if that were his destiny, he didn't want their last words to lack sincerity or veracity, her acts notwithstanding.

Perhaps, there was something in his eyes, a shade of his fear or pain showing, for Marguerite clung to him even tighter and pleadingly whispered.

"Don't say it, don't even think of it. God is with you, with my husband and the King. You _will _come back. Promise me that you will come back."

He unnoticeably shrugged. What did she want him to say, the truth or the lovable lie? The knight disliked to fable even for such a seemingly noble cause as to assuage his stepmother's anxiety and pain.

A lie was always a lie.

"Farewell, mother," with a faint smile Sephiroth kissed her frail strained hand, feeling how his stepmother leaned into his meaningless touch and broke off before she mistook it for something else that was not there.

Her words stopped him in the doorway.

"May I hope you forgave me?"

Neither reluctance, nor eagerness showing, he replied "Let us have this conversation later, after I am back."

He truly did not wish to exacerbate their relationships, willing to leave everything as it were, on a brink between polite coldness and occasional warmth.

She humbly hung her head, admitting defeat.

"As you wish, my son. Just know that no matter what happens, I will love you. Always."

Sephiroth dropped his eyes. How he was to respond to these words, he never understood.

"My father is waiting for me. Farewell."

A faint sob was her last answer.

Having descended the stairs, Sephiroth headed for the knight's hall where the lords and lieges have assembled for a prayer after which and a quick blessing from the chaplain the crowd dispersed into the smaller groups. The knight joined that of his father's. The Count wore a simple black cloak over his luxurious shining plate with a gold chain on his chest. He didn't scant for this campaign, taking his best short sword with him to his last act of grandeur and valour.

In silence the knights left the castle for the courtyard where grooms and squires have prepared their steeds. Only the faint clangs of spurs and armour joints could be heard in misty stillness. Alber solemnly held up a stirrup for him; it was his first march, his first real war and moreover Sephiroth was worried how the youth would take it.

"To horse, sires!" His stepfather ordered in a stentorian voice, thrusting his hand upward and mounting his destrier. Sephiroth flung himself into the saddle and, casting one last glance at the castle he might never see again, followed after the Count.

The motley cavalcade slowly passed the lowered drawbridge to take its place at the head of the long chain of steely glittering infantrymen and carts with wine and foods that loomed far behind.

The standard-bearers unfolded the banners, yellow and blue with the lion, and they haughtily fluttered in the faint wind. The summer morning was warm, the sky blue and nothing foreshadowed the rain or the disaster, even as Sephiroth felt an impelling urge to turn around as though he forgot something important at the castle.

The early morning quiescence was torn into shatters as the bugles stroke up a merry tune followed by the trumpets and the column quivered, getting under way.

Sephiroth gently stroked his steed's neck as it sniffed, anxiously looking sideways at the source of such loud noises.

What was awaiting them in the end?

With flying banners and to the sound of the ebullient music the French forces were marching towards their doom.

* * *

As evening fell, the batallies halted on the green plain, and immediately it began to look like a multi-coloured mosaic dotted with huge marquees, smaller tents and fires, kindling here and there. The air has filled with loud laughs as tired infantrymen were settling on the barren ground or grass with a mug of cheap beer or a plate of the usual meal.

The sentries were posted along the low hand-made fences of withies and shadows of those unlucky soldiers chosen for the tedious tiresome duties flashed from time to time before Genesis' eyes.

Then he felt grateful for being a priest.

The movement of huge forces always attracted whores and hawkers of different kinds who appeared near the road without delay. A coin slipped into the coarse palm of a sentry and a wanton girl has already filtered through the defence lines, quickly getting lost in the lurid reflections of fires in search of her guileless centuries' old trade. The nobles connived at their soldiers' entertainments, some even didn't shun taking a bite of the forbidden fruit, yet the tacit consent was kept until everyone could pretend such misconducts never happened.

Genesis dully turned his eyes from the fires to the starlit skies, desperately trying to dismiss the salacious moans of such a girl who found herself a prey for the night.

It was a vain attempt to find Sephiroth that day. Likely, his lover was held up at the council of war in one of those huge marquees. He could try and peek at the knight but such act was careless and disparaging at that.

The redhead studied the unappetizing contents of his bowl with yet another heavy sigh. Not that he did, but expecting anything decent on this journey seemed even more futile than trying to find his silver-haired lover.

Sephiroth didn't deceive him in anything even in the smallest scintilla. None asked questions as he arrived at the agreed place; he only was required to wear a wig and a cassock but those were minor inconveniences.

Genesis stretched himself on the warm bedding and closed his eyes yet the roaring laughter, resounding in his ears, didn't let him fall asleep. A group of drunken infantrymen neared his fire and impudently surrounded him. A tip of someone's boot touched his ribs and the redhead strained.

"Look, who this is! A priest!"

A couple of bearded men laughed.

"Wake this dolt in a cassock. I want to see his face." The next voice belonged to a leader and then in an instant Genesis was rudely jerked up to his feet.

Cerulean eyes dangerously narrowed, as he was eyeing his late evening guests, still maintaining a perfect slightly derisive calm.

"God be with you, my children. Did you come to a shrift?"

Another peal of guffaw was his only answer.

"That's a pretty one," the leader carried on, eyes glaring at him with avarice. "Why it could be a girl!"

Faces, defaced by sinister grins, drew nearer and Genesis felt a wave of stinking breath, a mixture of ale with salted beef.

"Go about your business," biting his lower lips, Genesis fixed a look of scorn on the leader's face, yet they were too drunk to listen to the voice of reason.

"Let's take his robe off and see whether he is a man," one of the men, who were still holding him, suggested, the others backed him up.

It was a clear outrage now the redhead wasn't about to endure. Azure eyes flashed with rancour as Genesis, having broken out from their grip, took a step back.

They were going to learn the hard way.

"A feisty one, I like that," with a toothy grin the leader gestured for his accomplices to grab the redhead under his arms while reaching out for his pants, but before either of the men moved, Genesis delivered a swift blow that sent the leader to the ground, where he curled up, howling and pressing his hands to the vulnerable spot between his legs.

One of the yokels took a swipe at him, the redhead dodged, answered back with a punch that landed on the latter's nose, likely, breaking it for there was a lot of blood and screaming.

"Anyone else wants proof?" Sneering malevolently, Genesis shifted his glance from one hick to another as they recoiled from him with fright. None volunteered, undecidedly glancing at the moaning leader.

Then there was a flash of excruciating pain between his ribs from the blow he must have missed while diverting his attention to speaking. Genesis coughed, trying to straighten, blindly waved away with his right hand and after that a shadow stole up from behind and struck him on the head.

The world went black.


	16. Chapter XV: Ignorance and greatness

_**A/N**__:_ Before letting you read I'd love to say my huge thanks to my dear CNome for her constant help to get me a better feel of the articles. Now I've got a much better feel for them, so this chapter is dedicated to her. ;)

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Pompey and Caesar –_I'm pretty sure you know who they are, but just in case these are great Roman political leaders, who alongside with Crassus formed the First Triumvirate but who at one point found themselves rivals battling for power. Caesar won.

_Custos morum (lat.)_ - guardian of morals.

* * *

_**Chapter XV.**_

_**Ignorance**__**and greatness.**_

"_In Flanders' fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row,_

_That mark our place…" (John McCrae)._

Genesis spat out blood with an unconcealed pained grimace, took a piece of damp soft cloth Sephiroth extended to him to put to his bleeding lips and jadedly leaned back onto the furs that served as the knight's bed in his marquee. Sephiroth calmly neared the basin with warm water, rinsed another piece of fabric and took a seat by his lover's side.

When in the morning, bleeding, disarrayed and barely keeping on his legs Genesis barged into his marquee the knight's first frightened thought was that it had to be Lorenzo's doing, but after an incoherent tale he realized that the merchant had nothing to do with his lover's wounds. Having freed Genesis from the cassock and the wig, Sephiroth noticed the bruises on his ribs and a bloody clot in his auburn hair. To his concerned question Genesis could only force a vague answer about running into some drunkards.

Sephiroth's fingers twined around wet auburn locks in a gesture of somewhat broken-hearted tenderness as he was trying not to cause his lover more pain. The redhead's body was quivering in his arms from pain and sheer hatred and, as he leaned forward to wipe the blood off his head, Genesis hissed, chocking with ire and swallowing words.

"What are you going to do now?"

"I'll find and punish those who did it to you," Sephiroth replied with deadly calm, wringing the cloth out. The redhead moaned when he put it to his injured ribs yet relaxed into the gentle kiss and let go of his hand he was clutching. The swollen lips tasted of blood. "I still need to know…"

"No," his lover interrupted him with that same loathing, "they never touched me. I would have never let…"

Sephiroth tenderly covered the redhead's injured lips with his own, whispering "I believe you," and then closed his eyes. Everything in his life was brittle, breaking like icicles and sticking their shards deep into his heart. He got used to it, or at least tried to from the very moment he saw his stepfather with the girl in the burning village. Their fingers entwined with strength and for a moment the knight froze, giving his everything into this small gesture, drowning in the frail warmth of his lover's kiss and touch.

"I wish to know…" Genesis' whisper helped him out of this unusual numbness. The thin lips twitched, folding into a smirk.

"You shall see."

Throwing his silver head back, Sephiroth straightened. Genesis was looking at him with pain-misted azure eyes, so lurid against the dark furs, so hurt and so dear to him. Why was everything so brittle?

Genesis wanly smiled "Come back soon."

He knew this time he would go far. Very far.

Sephiroth didn't notice how his fingers trembled as he ripped the flap of the marquee aside.

Alber awaited him obediently after having carried out his order, and for once he was extremely grateful for the youth's reticence and nearly childlike devotion.

"Did they find the troublemakers?"

"Yes, messire," his squire gestured to the small throng which gathered in the middle of the space, formed by the circle of tents. "Is… is he alright?"

By now Alber knew his interest in Genesis' fate was more than merely a lord to the liege gratitude, yet his partially revealed secret was safe with the youth's honour and scrupulousness.

Sephiroth curtly nodded "He will be."

The plain was bathing in merry sunbeams, playfully glittering in the sprinkled with the diamond clear morning dew grass, on the armour plates and helmets of the noble gapers, so lively, so bright it was impossible to look straight at it sometimes.

Sephiroth took a few steps towards the gathering, noticed his stepfather in the middle of the crowd, exchanged quick glances with him; but then his gaze fell onto the soldiers responsible for hurting Genesis and a white-hot wave surged up inside, and he could no longer see and think clearly.

They wanted to rape his lover, to mutilate what belonged to him, to touch what he touched and steal what he cherished and… and loved…

They _dared_ to…

Sephiroth was seething with rage, dark and turbid, which was flashing through his abrupt movements as a short lightning. Dozens of pairs of curious eyes were riveted on him as he began walking up and down along the line of multi-coloured marquees, arms crossed and lips tightly pressed together. Silver flew asunder around his frame as a stormy halo.

The culprits, tied or shackled, sat on the ground. Dozens of witnesses identified them as those drunken soldiers who dared to lay hands on his lover, not that this part needed to be revealed. Instead, beating the priest was a good enough excuse for proper punishment.

A small crowd of spectators gathered around the scene, soldiers and nobles whispering to each other, and soon more rumours will circulate about him and the strange priest he was so eager to defend.

Sephiroth halted, withering the chained leader, and it seemed that under his gaze the man drew himself together and diminished in size.

"Hang him!" The order cut through the icy stillness as a sword through flesh, anger mirrored in emerald flames, raging in the depths of almond-shaped eyes. The look on his stepfather's face was all surprise and slight suspicion, as though it mattered. That yokel dared to threaten and hurt Genesis, _his_ Genesis, and there was no stopping for the punishment, no reasoning, no mercy. He was no forgiving saint; he could be truculent. "Hang him!"

After the second, louder order two infantrymen irresolutely stepped out of the crowd and neared the condemned. One of them obsequiously bowed "I was a hangman in Béthune for two years, Your Grace."

The silver-haired knight simply gestured for him to carry on, but the man claiming he was an executioner wasn't in a hurry to obey his order. Instead, he dared to observe "We can't hang him for there are no trees large enough nearby."

Sephiroth fastened his blazing emerald gaze into the leader's trembling frame. Only thinking that these hands were about to mar that perfect body fomented feelings stronger and darker than he has ever known. He had Genesis' bleeding lips in his eyes, Genesis' wounded hollow glance, and for that he would have killed the man himself.

"Then behead him!" The knight was beside himself with ire at their sloth and lack of quick wits. Beheading was an execution for the nobles but right now the viscount didn't care about anything besides seeing the culprit dead.

A wooden rough-hewn log was rolled out into the open at once and upon seeing it the leader of those hicks shuddered, sprawling before him.

"Spare me, Your Grace, I am begging you!" His voice, no longer drunken, resembled the feral howl and he made an attempt to kiss his plated legs but Sephiroth stepped away in time with the look of utter disgust on his face.

He would have reconsidered if it wasn't Genesis they were trying to hurt. The hangman glanced at him, waiting for the final decision which didn't take long to appear in a quick nonchalant gesture.

The glance the leader shot at him was as that of an animal at bay, saliva slowly dripping from his chin.

"You shall resort to the public execution for that minor misbehaviour," his stepfather's voice interrupted his contemplation that, he had to admit, stirred satisfaction. Sephiroth echoed absent-mindedly.

"For disciplinary purposes only."

The leader was hitched up to his feet to hang flaccidly and helplessly in soldier's arms, mumblings or prayers escaping his lips together with hoarse breaths. He wasn't begging any longer, shifting his lacklustre, protruded from fright eyes from one indifferent spectator to another. For most nobles it was entertainment of a kind, so his pleas were doomed to be vain.

The hangman from Bethune has already bared a simple sword and in less than no time the culprit lay pressed to the log, pitifully scratching dirt with his nails, as though still trying to break away, yet his twitches ceased when, flaring in the rays of the morning sun, the sword fell and the chopped head came off and rolled to the side. The hangman's outerwear was sprinkled with blood and someone from the crowd gasped at the execution. A pair of emerald eyes stood out against the throng, so brightly they flashed, so avidly, as Sephiroth shifted his gaze from the crowd back to the corpse.

Who was a man just an instant ago no longer resembled one, having slumped in the bloody pool.

Was and wasn't.

He finally felt strangely satisfied and the rage abated.

"Give the rest of them twenty… no, thirty lashes each." The knight spoke to the hangman and, as the first troublemaker was being stripped of his undershirt and scourged to the sound of his bawls, took a couple of steps to the side.

He knew Genesis was watching.

He wanted him to watch.

* * *

At the small village of Chatillon Loire was shallow and narrow, although the heavens opened above it just a couple of days ago. As a fillet, it meandered between opulent banks, strewn with little scarlet poppies. They looked like droplets of blood spilled on the grizzled from white ox-eye daisies meadows. Their stems were slowly swinging in faint gusts of warm summer wind, bathing in the sunlight that gushed down upon the heights and field, filling his heart with longing for peace they were about to leave behind once they cross the river.

The silver-haired knight dismounted, brought his jet-black steed closer to the waters to let the weary animal drink. Alber followed his example and then settled down on the meadow with a reed in his hands, unusually quiet and even sad, as though understanding what his lord was thinking about.

Sephiroth cupped his hand over his eyes, intently glancing over the crystal clear river and at the banks on the opposite side. They seemed sloping enough not to cause their heavy cavalry any significant trouble. There used to be a bridge in a village half a league upstream, but it was washed down during the heavy rain.

"Are we going to win this war, messire?" Alber suddenly asked, having let go of the reed and plucked a poppy.

"What makes you think we aren't?"

"I don't know…" the youth hung his head, picking another flower, a white camomile this time. "I had a very bad dream before we left. I saw a barren field, bestrewn with these… poppies, scarlet as blood, and there were thousands of them… wasteland and poppies. What does this mean, messire?"

Sephiroth took a seat by his squire's side and smiled a simple smile.

"I don't believe in dreams, Alber, I believe in this," his hand rested on the hilt of the bastard sword, "and our hearts and minds."

The youth beamed at once, as though he has just proclaimed some perennial truth.

"You are always right, messire. One day," he declared with pride, "I shall be just like you."

Sephiroth chuckled yet said nothing, watching his squire pluck another poppy and tuck its stem behind the collar of his cotardie. One day the youth will understand that, to become like him, he will have to choose between greatness and happiness and a tough choice that one always was. Most likely, his squire will choose happiness.

The ground underneath them shook and the wind wafted the sounds of hundreds of approaching horses to his ears. Sephiroth reluctantly rose, brushed a blade of grass off his clothing and grabbed the rein with his gloved hand. The jet-black steed shot a reproachful glance at the knight, as Alber helped him mount and as he gently urged it back towards his stepfather's troops that already were near at hand from where they halted for rest.

The stillness and placidity of the camomile strewn meadow was broken when the first cavalry batallies came in sight and sounds of neighs and hundreds of hooves hitting the ground were heard therefrom. The detachments of horses of different coats approached, shrouded in clouds of dust, immediately beginning their descent towards the river. The waters frothed, parting before them, small waves breaking against the earthen banks.

Sephiroth froze on the back of his stallion, watching the lively stream of brown and white horses' backs reach the middle of Loire and eventually come ashore.

The carts would have to go through the village in order to replenish the food supplies. Sephiroth knew that by now Chatillon must have become deserted; he couldn't blame the peasants. Having already paid high taxes to their landlords they now lay under tribute by the approaching armies, yet such was war when everyone had to sacrifice something, whether it was a son's and a husband's life or their cattle and bread, the latter being at least simpler.

His stepfather detached from the main group of horsemen, galloped towards him.

"Father," the knight greeted him with a polite nod to receive the usual tap on his steel plated shoulder.

"It seems the weather favours us." The Count gestured towards the infantry which began the crossing. "We might be able to reach the capital earlier than I expected."

"Whence?"

"Look at them, Sephiroth. They are on the mettle and if half of Philip's army is like ours, we'd win this war in no time."

"Zeal is not enough, father." Yet the Count only grinned, urging his mount towards Loire.

Sephiroth lingered on the bank, looking for his lover, but, most likely, Genesis was with the carts. He would prefer to make certain that the redhead didn't meet any more disasters, even if it was but a short glance they could exchange; only Genesis was nowhere to be seen and the knight couldn't wait any longer. Having shot a gaze at the meadow behind, he urged his mount forward and the steed, trained to obey his orders, meekly galloped towards Loire, leaving a clear trail of rumpled grass and broken poppies behind.

* * *

For the next halt the Count and his stepson chose a small village, which came in their way in abundance. The batallies have been moving quickly thus far and with such speed, Genesis thought, they could reach Paris in less than two weeks.

Not that he was eager to go near the battlefield any time soon.

The redhead uttered a quiet blasphemy as a frightened chicken dashed under his feet and with a loud cluck disappeared in the dark narrow street. The settlement was quite impecunious, small huts and barns huddling up on either sides of the dusty road. Perhaps, the village has never seen such ebullient life which came together with the batallies that needed quarters, food, and_entertainment_some peasant girls were more than eager to give for free, some even hoping that their _knight_ would return to them afterwards.

Torches moved here and there, yells being heard from the adjoining street to his left and ahead of him. Perhaps, peasants and tax-gatherers have been arguing about another extra cow or a horse the army needed.

"Please, don't take last bread from me and my family, sire! I won't have enough to feed my children!" Genesis heard a distinct yell and another incoherent bellow following, which told him that the tax-gatherer didn't listen to the bloke's pleas.

"Thank God, bumpkin, that we don't take your son to battle and stop scrimping or we'll torch your petty village!"

The redhead shook his head and turned to another narrow street, counting the huts on his way. He came here for a reason no less and it had little to do with the peasant's complaints. After that incident on their first halt Genesis has been more careful, constantly wearing a cloak with a deep hood over his cassock, despite warmth of summer evenings. Least of all he wanted to be recognized by Sephiroth's vassals or beaten up again.

Or, maybe, he did just for the sake of watching his lover in that beguiling state of rage, ordering to behead the culprit for merely inflicting him some minor wounds which have already stopped hurting. It felt like bliss, being avenged with such cruelty, such fervour. It meant his life was truly valuable to his lover.

Genesis cynically smirked, reaching the fifth hut to his left and entered without knocking.

Immediately he had to bend down so that he wouldn't hit the low ceiling. The smell of dirt hung strongly in the stale warm air, causing his nose to wrinkle in disgust.

Dirt and death.

A young girl was lying on the bed in semidarkness, barely in her twenties, morbidly pale with sunken cheeks and feverishly glistening eyes. A stout short man sat by the bed with a small basin between his legs. The vessel was filled with bloody red water. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, baring fleshy and hairy hands, which likened him to a butcher rather than a barber or a doctor. Besides him Genesis noticed two lean shadows, hiding in the opposite corner. They had to be parents, the monk thought, making a proper devout face. A small bundle lay still in their hands, immovable, soundless. A dead child?

"She'll breathe her last in an hour or so," the _doctor_ dispassionately remarked to the mother's sob, "you came right on time, father."

Genesis curtly nodded and moved an unsteady chair to the bed. It didn't take much wit to realize she was dying. The redhead has seen death too often and could recognize her soft stealthy tread anywhere. The lurid features became pointed as the girl was held by last strengths of a young body that craved for life somewhere on the brink between this world and the void.

About half an hour ago a peasant found him, begging to attend to the dying and, playing his role to the end, he agreed. He would do much more to be near his lover during this campaign. He felt Sephiroth would need him, and herein he was right.

Genesis threw the hood back and hung his head, mumbling a quick prayer whereupon all those present in the hut crossed themselves, more or less sincerely. All this time he was continuously watching the girl, his thoughts on her and not on the words he memorized a long time ago and very well at that.

He used to ask himself these questions all the time. Why was life given to them and then mercilessly taken back when those like this girl barely had time to taste it, to feel it, to enjoy it. For them life was like a cheese in a mousetrap, sweet waffles laid out before a poor child who couldn't afford them, a fickle intoxicating taste of something passing. What was a reason for them to start living a life only to found themselves bereaved of it too soon?

Then he understood that little in this world had reasons.

Genesis moved his hands from the rosary to the girl's chest. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he solemnly whispered and then suddenly the girl opened her eyes for the last time. "Amen."

They were green, like Sephiroth's eyes when he looked at him through passion tinged depths, like spring grass which pushed up through layers of snow in a thaw to die in a strong frost on the next day.

"Are you an angel?" She asked, already _there_, in the world where living had no power, a blissful smile blooming on withering lips.

And he said "Yes."

Everything young and green dies in winter.

Leaving the hut with a modest payment, Genesis absently wondered when he had become such an idealist.

There was little left for him to do in the village so he headed back to the encampment, hurrying, as the night was swiftly falling over the settlement and a new crescent appeared on the upturned chalice of the dark welkin. He was able to dismiss the dying girl very fast, as it was his habit, to hear the confession and forget.

Two men went pass him and at first Genesis intended to slip by, yet froze, having heard scraps of their conversation. They were talking about his lover.

One said to his interlocutor "Did you see what that arrogant moron had done two days before? He ordered to behead a bloke for beating up some priest."

"Yeah, so I've heard," the other winked at him with a salacious grin. "I bet he needs a whore, maybe, two to loosen up."

"Or a decent lout."

Genesis' face grimaced in a disdainful smirk to the sound of twofold guffaw, fists clenching, as he finally passed by them, like a silent invisible shadow disappearing in darkness. Those yokels were lucky. If one of them dared to say Sephiroth's name out loud, he would have shoved it down their vulgar throats. Ignorance never understood greatness, which was the latter's utmost tragedy.

Little did Genesis know how close his thoughts came to the reason of what caused disaster merely weeks later.

* * *

His stepfather's marquee was never empty. On the march the Count liked spending his free time with his closest vassals, drinking wine and playing dice for imaginary money in most cases, for the knights have already lost more than any of them hoped to gain during the campaign. It was always noisy in the luxurious, lavishly decorated with furs and ancestral coat of arms tent. A huge movable table usually stood in the middle, at which the dicers gathered, exchanging loud, often rude remarks, laughing, cursing. Sephiroth would usually pick a spot on the furs as far from the obstreperous medley as possible, remaining reticent for nearly all the time he had to be present in the marquee.

He had little to add to those conversations.

That evening there were just four of them, his stepfather, baron de Crecy, Sir Thomas and him, which made the whole atmosphere more or less bearable. There were less insipid jokes floating in the air, less vulgar curses, less everything, and the knight could say he almost enjoyed it, almost being for one single reason of nearly unbearable need to return to his marquee and meet with Genesis whom he recently hasn't seen at all. They were constantly on the march, constantly in a hurry, urged on by the news from Paris which has been arriving nearly every day now. It was enervating.

Sephiroth put the book about tactics he's been reading aside and closed his eyes to the faint sounds of the rolling dice and occasional curses from the baron who seemed to be losing all evening. Games as means of entertainment never attracted him too much; he preferred chess and, as of lately, Genesis. After his affair with the irascible redhead began, he found his stepfather's company more and more onerous.

"You have been silent all evening, Sephiroth," his stepfather remarked, taking a sip from the goblet.

He nodded. "I've been thinking about the campaign."

The Count uttered a frustrated sigh, rolling his dice and exclaiming, having gotten an excellent combination.

"And here I thought you were thinking about some pretty girl at the King's court."

The baron approvingly laughed "There are many pretty girls in Paris. Queen Joan's maid, what was her name…"

"Sophie," prompted Sir Thomas.

"Yes, Sophie. She is a nice little piece."

The baron hid his smile in the opulent curly beard while Sephiroth barely suppressed a yawn. Listening to his stepfather's lieges bragging about their amours could put him to sleep in no time. Besides, furs were soft and comfortable.

"Sephiroth doesn't seem too interested," Louis hemmed, giving him a disappointed look. "Doesn't look like he finds Sophie pretty."

"Maybe, he doesn't find all girls pretty, because he fancies young men," the baron joked unsuccessfully, for in a bright silver and green flare Sephiroth rose, his face frozen in deadly calmness and hand on the hilt of his bastard sword. Emerald eyes were all flames only a blind fool would not have found dangerous.

"Next time," the viscount uttered distinctly and coldly, "you would be fighting me for such insults."

The baron didn't efface himself, boldly remarking "Why not now?"

"I would find it disgraceful to kill you before battle." Disdain sipping through his every word, Sephiroth turned around and left his stepfather's marquee.

For once he was glad he didn't have to find a proper excuse to take his leave.

… Genesis has already been waiting for him and once he stepped inside his tent, his lover twined his arms around his neck and beckoned him to the furs.

"I missed you," the whisper was hot on his neck as nimble fingers hastily began undoing his clothes, as though Genesis sensed that they had little time.

With a mirthful chuckle Sephiroth held out his hand, forestalling his lover's eagerness before it turned them on to a point when they wouldn't be able stop.

There was something on his mind he wanted to tell his lover.

"How about a game first?" Silver eyebrows playfully arched, that same way Genesis loved most.

The redhead feigned grave dissatisfaction, disengaging from his embrace, not failing to play with silver hair as he did so.

"You want to play chess when you are in distress or when you want to tell me something." The knight mysteriously shrugged. "But you'll have to be naked," the redhead demanded next, bending over the makeshift bedding and reaching for the draughtboard.

With another chuckle Sephiroth discarded the rest of his slough Genesis wasn't able to undo yet, appearing before his lover's eyes shrouded just in the lightest veil of silver and feeling unfamiliar youthful ardour. "It means I am playing white."

"Like some custos morum, always white and shining," Genesis teased with a derisive tilt of his head, eyes all deep inimitable in their beauty azure.

Sephiroth stroke a seductive pose on the dark furs and made his first move with the white pawn.

"Humph, hardly. Those, who play white, make the first move, giving a chance spectator at least a pale illusion of being one step ahead of the enemy. But… what would you say," emerald eyes were watching his lover, not the chessboard, "if I told you that I always thought… mine was a special existence?"

Genesis answered, moving his pawn with an impetuous gesture, and then ironically echoed.

"I would say, it is all you in those words," the irony in his melodic voice was kind, not the usual caustic, cynical one.

"Always laughing at me?"

"No. Merely teasing. Greatness comes with a price." His lover couldn't hold out, settled his palm on his thigh, ran his fingers up and down his skin. Their conversation was balancing on the brink of facetious and serious, not that Sephiroth minded. "The Brutus' dagger, Pompey's decapitation, Hannibal's treason, all those are its price, solitude is its essence and blood is its wings. The world rarely forgives those who challenge it."

Sephiroth shot a glance at the board where the battle between the chess pieces was flagrant. "Too much pathos, Genesis."

"Maybe," his lover decided against arguing and merely smiled his ever so sly, crooked smile. Sephiroth laughed, throwing his head back. He understood nothing would come out of the conversation that day, overturning the board which was a sign of the game's coronation. Genesis immediately rolled over to his side, avidly nestled closer, throwing one leg over his unclothed thighs. "I can't look at you naked. You should know that by now," the slick tongue traced a line on his collarbone, shortly supplanted by soft lips, filling his skin with hot incipient sparks of want.

Want and something more.

Sephiroth plunged his hand into silky lustre of his lover hair in a gesture of both tenderness and possession. He suddenly remembered the incident and how close he was to realizing that he loved the redhead.

Then, kissing him and looking into azure voids of rapture his lover's eyes turned into, wondered if it was the same for Genesis.

... The morning found them awake and marching towards Paris, Sephiroth at the head of the column, Genesis in the back, yet both of them equally unaware that the first battle would be fought much earlier than either of them thought and hoped.


	17. Chapter XVI: Ashes and sandalwood

_Summary_: Historical AU. Some called him devil's spawn, others worshiped as if he was a Messiah himself. For him nothing existed besides hatred and vengeance until the fated meeting with a man who changed it all. France, 1340-1346.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_ Ok, don't blame my muse for Cloud :) At first it was supposed to be a random kid but then it turned out to be too much temptation (even though in FF I dislike him strongly).

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_"Come back with your shield - or on it"_ – Spartan way of women seeing their men off to war. Come back with your shield means return as a victor, on your shield – dead.

_P__er se (lat.) – _at bottom, inherently.

* * *

_**Chapter X**__**VI.**_

_**Ashes**__** and sandalwood.**_

"_Happy is the one who forgets that which cannot be changed." (German proverb)._

Genesis impatiently shifted in the saddle of his mule, casting a grave glance towards the cart that got stuck in the mud. It has been raining from time to time for the last couple of days, and in some places the roads, disfigured by countless potholes, became nearly impassable. This narrow pathway winded through the sparse deciduous forest and the cart, loaded with salted beef, has been stuck on it for half an hour at least.

People were fussing around it, screaming at each other, hissing of the scourges together with neighs of helpless, led to exhaustion horses were heard, yet the wooden rims were firmly caught in slather.

The redhead's meek mule shot an indifferent glance at the turmoil; his ecclesiastical rank of a mendicant monk meant the voluntary renunciation of any property and possessions, personal horses included, so he had to travel using means Sephiroth's army was willing to provide him with. Genesis disliked dependency, even insignificant one like this, but since he agreed to follow his lover to this war bearing with it wasn't any harder than accepting Sephiroth's social superiority.

Having drawn the bit, Genesis pulled the hood over his eyes and, affectedly stooping, passed by the immobile cart. None paid any heed to his presence, not even after that public execution, likely, simply unable to connect all dots and tie him to that beaten priest. But nobles were smarter than the average blokes and all consequences of the decapitation must have weighed on his lover's shoulders.

The mule's hooves splashed mud as Genesis urged it forward with more haste, riding by the thin stretched column of infantry that carelessly dispersed, losing any likes of a battle formation since none of them expected engagements any time soon. His destination lay far ahead, at the head of the cavalry, seemingly unattainable for those like him, yet the boundary was broken nearly every night at the viscount's marquee.

Smirking to himself, Genesis dashed along the trudging infantry, passed the cavalry and finally saw his lover on the green hill surrounded by a couple of other nobles and his stepfather, who in his presence looked like children before a god.

There always was something nearly godlike in a way Sephiroth stuck on a horse with his back always straight, his majestic bearing accentuated by the steel carcass of his armour, and weightless silver aura, playing vivid in the late afternoon sunrays, supplemented the image of something otherworldly.

Nearing the hill, Genesis suddenly remembered a legend about Samael; it wasn't the first time he thought about how much his lover resembled the angel who fell for the sole reason of trying to be like Creator himself.

If…

No, it was still too early to think of it.

The monk halted a couple of yards away from the gathering, unwilling to attract attention just yet, stealing a couple of precious moments to feast his eyes upon Sephiroth.

Looking at him upwards often elicited jealousy, yet for most times Genesis was able to seal this childish feeling in his heart. It was useless as envying the sun shining high above everything and everyone, instead of simply holding up his face to its warm caressing rays.

No matter what he did and how hard he tried, social origins would never change. He was born a commoner, whilst Sephiroth…

Slightly abashed, Genesis suddenly realized who his lover bore strong resemblance to, and the talk they had at the knight's marquee only aggravated his suspicions. Being a student at Sorbonne, he often saw a portrait of a man in his late twenties with refined facial features, with the similar majestic bearing and bright steel-blue eyes, knowing him to be Philip IV the Handsome, the last great king of the House of Capet. Could it be that Sephiroth was the dead king's last bastard?

Of course, the viscount felt him staring; only a blind man wouldn't. In the presence of his lover's stepfather and vassals he had to play a different role, bowing with respect and speaking to him with solemnity, all these hypocritical signs a burden to his pride more so since he loved that epitome of grace, saw those emerald, now gifting him with a passing glance eyes erupt with passion from his caresses and kissed those thin lips, slightly parted for a nonchalant, casual, "What brings you here?"

Suddenly Genesis wanted to laugh, so vain the whole act was.

"There is a cart stuck on the road, messire."

Although his features were concealed by the hood, he could still see ghostly warmth flicker in emerald depths, meant only for him to notice.

"Do something about him, Sephiroth, before I order to banish this beggar from my sight."

The others laughed at the Count's words, everyone except his lover, causing the redhead's fists to clench under the robe. So much vain arrogance was in every replica and gesture, as though he was their plaything, easily chucked out, effortlessly beheaded, or, following their transient vagaries, tamed.

Like an animal. Or a slave.

Sephiroth knew him long enough to ease the tension by gesturing to his squire.

"Alber, go with this man," as always he was exceptionally polite. Genesis smirked to himself, making another bow and turning his mule around. Most likely, this will be the only time he'll see Sephiroth today. Before his lover disappeared from view, their eyes met again, locked for an instant and, noticing bright emerald spark once again, Genesis caught himself thinking that the silver-haired knight meant so much for him now, more than any other person in his entire life after his mother was burnt.

What will that change bring?

He did not know.

His gaze shifted then to the silent youth to his right. Alber was disciplined enough not to ask questions just for the sake of indulging his curiosity, not that Genesis expected anything else from his lover's squire. The last time they were riding side by side was when Sephiroth set him free which seemed so long ago. Alber didn't say a word then, although obviously wanted to. Shifting in the saddle so that he could face the youth, Genesis inquired with more desire to find out about little titbits of his lover's life than the life of a naïve child barely in his twenties.

"How long have you been his squire?"

The question confused Alber a little, which Genesis immediately found annoying, regretting he's ever asked anything.

"My third year will be in autumn," he finally said with slightly dreamy expression on his childlike face. "He is the best master, never ordered to punish me with lashes like all others do. He's taught me so many things, not only sword fighting, but history, literacy. I owe him my life."

The awe and admiration were annoying as well, but at least the youth understood that Sephiroth wasn't like most nobles, something he has seen shortly after their first meeting. Anyone else would have left him to rot in the cell.

"Then you must be asking yourself what I am doing here."

It was the sole reason for starting this conversation. Genesis had to know how much he could trust this youth. Under the piercing gaze of cerulean eyes Alber hastily shook his head, as though he would have found the squire's words more persuasive this way.

"Why and who my lord is friends with, doesn't concern me." There was a slight blush on Alber's cheeks and a glimmer in hazel eyes. "And you made him happier, which I tried so many times, and for that you have my loyalty as well."

The cart was within a couple of hundreds yards now, still stuck on the pathway, so the redhead decided against saying anything, more so since all his sarcastic remarks would have sounded foolishly.

For the first time in his life a naïve child triumphed over him in the wordplay, on the ground he had thought himself unbeatable, without even having the slightest notion how and why.

* * *

Gently and warily Genesis brushed the last shimmering silver locks off his unclothed shoulders and, having settled on his back, poured a healthy amount of sandalwood oil onto his palm. The exquisite scent of an expensive fragrance immediately spread in his marquee, different from the one surrounding him during the march on a sweating horse's back. Sephiroth inhaled deeply and with pleasure, relaxing as his lover's refined fingers squeezed his shoulders, slowly rubbing tepid oil into his skin and begetting sensations of freshness, vivacity and lustiness.

"Do you know how much it costs, the oil I mean?"

"A lot," the knight mumbled rather indifferently, deciding to ignore jealous notes in the redhead's voice. Meanwhile his lover's hands slipped down, so nimble and skilful in getting at every inch of his back and then waist and thighs that Sephiroth would not trade this prelude for anything else at the moment. Emerald eyes lazily slid shut, hiding between slightly trembling silvery lashes. "Why would it bother you?"

Genesis paused, taking his time to rub another healthy amount of sandalwood oil in his slender thigh. "I could live half a year off the money wasted on this bottle," hands running along his skin for the last time, Genesis slipped from his back, awaiting him to turn over.

Sephiroth raised himself on the elbow, rolled to the side, eyes still closed, holding his chest up to the exquisite gentleness of the redhead's strokes. Truth to be told, he never really bothered thinking about the expenses. Genesis mounted him again and, while his lover's palms resumed coating him with the fragrant oil, the silver-haired knight leisurely gave himself up to stroking fiery tresses that fell across the redhead's forehead when he bent his auburn head over his chest. His lower, plusher lip was deliciously bit from the effort he put into pleasuring Sephiroth.

"You don't have to worry about that money now."

"How generous of you to say that," the ariose voice turned amusingly sarcastic and together with fingers rubbing and squeezing the dark sensitive hump on his chest sent sweet trembles through his abdomen. The slightly viscous oil was turning warm, heated with Genesis' hands, begetting another chains of goose bumps creeping up his spine.

His lover was getting too sensual, distracting him from thinking about anything else besides the slick palms slowly caressing his haunches. Arching, he freed his leg and casually, with languorous sloth threw it around his lover's neck, shivering yet again as oil coated fingers masterfully searched for every weak spot.

Sephiroth was tired and, enjoying the slow pace of the prelude, had little desire to add anything to the redhead's words while the latter was finishing with the last scrupulous strokes along his inner thigh. "You now smell as a sandalwood plantation."

The words elicited an amused chuckle from the knight, which turned into a faint moan as his lover's hand slid to the side, insensibly at first, then teasing, the utter arch of Genesis' body flowing in-between his legs as a stream of liquid flames.

"Would you rather have me smell like sewage…" the end of his replica was swallowed by glistening ruby lips, covering his with infatuating slowness. Sephiroth uttered another low moan, as their tongues met half way, sliding along each other with playful unhurried timidity, the one of a kind that behaved like there was the whole eternity at its disposal. Genesis eventually gave into his demand, yet arched back so that, to plunge deeply into his mouth, the knight had to raise himself on the elbows.

His lover always wanted something to satisfy his own whim, this way or another.

The knight leaned back, catching his breath and twining his arms around the redhead's slim waist, fingers delving into the smooth delicious flexure of his beautiful body. Genesis pushed into him, gracefully caving in, and with a smug smile Sephiroth felt a hard hump pressed against his abdomen.

His lover was so easily aroused.

Genesis hungrily set about kissing his neck, softness alternating with teasing bites and sandalwood scent became stronger.

They twined, they moved, they sounded together, breaths quickening and pleasure rising.

Moving his slender legs apart, Genesis eagerly opened up towards him, and Sephiroth slowly slid into the damp core, enveloped by scorching heat. His lover arched to accept the most of him, maintaining that same intoxicating sloth, and for an instant he froze as a spasm of bliss shot through their united strained bodies, so deep he was.

Maybe, Sephiroth even uttered a cry.

It was overwhelming, to be with Genesis.

He thought he went blind or deaf or both. There was ardour, beguiling dance on the furs, merged with acute unrestrained moans, there was oblivion and the smell of sandalwood oil. What little remained of him was shared between them to the last scintilla of molten passion and utter bliss of completion.

That night Sephiroth was lavish and as they lay satiated in each other's arms, drowning in the sea of aftermath bliss, thoughtlessly promised, "I am going to win this war for you, for us."

Genesis smirked, saying nothing, believing his lover's promise which the latter would have kept, if he were the only commander of the French army.

However, he was not.

* * *

Marguerite's hands were trembling, as she broke the seals on Alfonso's letter and avidly fastened her gaze into the vellum pages covered with slovenly handwriting. There was another reason for her to ask this noble to keep an eye on Sephiroth, for he, a rare case those days, was literate to some extent.

At first the young man floridly described her virtues; she hardly looked at those lines, skipping over the next ones, describing the journey of Louis' army, as well. In her wildest obsession she needed to know at least something about her stepson's fate, two words, three, or even a hint were enough.

Sephiroth used to write her letters when he would go to Paris with his stepfather or stayed at his vassal's castles for too long, his messages, always laconic and polite, stirring so many feelings in her. She kept them in a sandalwood writing case, rereading from time to time, as though hoping with some fool's hope to find meaning to his words she had previously overlooked, only his lines, containing no hints of feelings or implied confessions, could have not been taken equivocally. At first he would usually inquire about her health, then write something about himself and his retinue, only as of lately, after her blunt confession, he didn't send her a single letter.

As often as a messenger arrived at the castle gates, with a sinking heart she rushed downstairs, hoping against hope that he brought Sephiroth's message, only to find her forlorn hope mercilessly crushed time after time.

Her only correspondents were her husband and staunch Alfonso, from whom she received news on Sephiroth. She always put the Count's letters aside without even bothering to break the seals. Was there a reason to read letters from the dead?

Opal eyes slowly slid along the third paragraph of Alfonso's letter, where her devoted vassal wrote about the bloke's execution. There was something odd about it, something she could not quite tie with her stepson. Sephiroth never received pleasure from public ostentatious executions; it wasn't his habit to resort to extremely harsh punishments in the first place. Why did he do it for some priest, unless that priest was an impostor, giving himself out to be one while disguising someone very dear to her stepson?

In a fit of agonizing jealousy Marguerite took a seat by the table in her bedchambers and hastily wrote an answer. She wanted to know who that priest was, even though her suspicions remained locked deep within her heart.

What if Sephiroth found a way to disguise his peasant mistress and take her with him? What if that girl was so dear to her stepson she would never be able to take her place in his heart?

After the letter was written, she rose and poured herself a glass of wine, a third one this since morning. Marguerite could only hope that after everything she had done Sephiroth would eventually share her unrequited love.

There was no other hope.

* * *

Sephiroth stormed into the marquee, taking Genesis, who was not expecting his lover so soon, by utter surprise, more so since the knight was fully armed, lacking only his helmet and his decorated with the Nevers' lion shield.

"What happened?" Arching his eyebrows, inquired the redhead, having raised himself on the elbow.

At first Sephiroth paid him no heed, baring the misericord and replacing it with the newer one, all his gestures calm as always, yet it didn't take much for Genesis to realize he was preparing for the battle. His refined features were frozen in a harsher, more austere expression, the one of invincibility and confidence. It looked like his doubts and fears, if there were any, remained locked and caged, however, Genesis knew his lover well enough to see even through this steel mask.

"Our scouts found remains of the English vanguard in the city a league ahead of us," the knight replied a bit absent-mindedly. "Help me replace my cloak. I would prefer not to call for Alber when you are in my marquee."

It rang as an arrogant order and any other time Genesis would have simply ignored it, only that day, he knew, Sephiroth didn't want it to sound as an order. The viscount was so detached he might have not even realized who he was talking to.

The redhead gracefully rose, and, having swiftly removed the simple blue cape from his lover's steel outlined shoulders, threw another, luxurious one, over them.

"You look gorgeous."

His words elicited a faint ghostly smile, which was gone the next instant, buried deep beneath that same cold mask. Steel and ice, that he was now, because he was expected to be such. No infantry or cavalry would follow a doubtful, meek leader. Genesis could only admire how fast Sephiroth changed into impersonal, rigorous commander, for whom his affectionate words meant little.

Thereupon Sephiroth looked at him. Genesis knew that penetrating gaze of emerald eyes. Having pressed himself to the cold plates of his lover's armour, the redhead whispered, "I know, you shall come back with your shield."

His immaculate skin still bore that faint intoxicating smell of sandalwood oil.

Sephiroth curtly nodded, expecting as much; he didn't need overly sentimental sobs and lamentations, expressing everything in a simple tight hug, closing his eyes and letting lips gently brush against his lips, searching, asking, and gifting.

Likely, that is why he chose Genesis.

Sephiroth was by the threshold, whereupon suddenly halted, dropping his hand. Awkward silence hung in the air, strained as a thread between the silver plated back and him. This time the viscount turned slowly, neared him slowly to the faint clangs of steel joints, and Genesis, anxious and tense, averted his eyes, unable to look at the marble face which no longer resembled a cold mask.

He preferred a cold mask.

"There is something you should know." The steel hands felt cold on his chin until he removed the glove, and a warm gentle finger touched his lips. "If this is my time to fall, I do not wish to go without saying it at least once in my life, without letting you know how I feel."

Genesis already understood. "You will not fall!" He snapped maliciously, harshly, because most of all he desired to look into those emerald depths again, to which Sephiroth smiled and simply said. "I love you."

The redhead inclined his head and avidly clung to his lover's long fingers with his lips to hide his pained face. He could lose anything and anyone, yet with everything that was left of the boy who lived in Toulouse with his mother and read Bible in the evening, he craved he wouldn't have to.

"If I fall, do not mourn me much."

Genesis mercilessly bit his lower lip to blood, squeezing his lover's hand, as if it was his only support. Now, that was a great consolation. Sephiroth was always discrepant, expressing his feelings, as though having no understanding whatsoever of what he has just said.

Genesis raised his head, maintaining the usual arrogance in his manners and glance.

"It will be hard not to mourn you." Sephiroth will not get more from him until he's back. The redhead didn't wish to turn his words into a broken-hearted confession. He had much to say.

His lover kissed him again, although slightly absent-mindedly this time, and that was the end of their farewells.

His heart throbbing as a bird in a cage, Genesis followed Sephiroth with his gaze, watching him through the quivering curtains of his marquee, until the knight disappeared from his sight.

It was time to let his lover into his plans. Sephiroth was ready.

Only Genesis could not have guessed that, even if he deliberately tried, he would not have been able to choose the worse time.

* * *

Torched from two corners, the small city of Evreux was blazing, dry wood and hatch catching fire quickly and eagerly. The devastating flames haven't reached its core yet and somewhere there, in the web of narrow tortuous streets, remains of the English rearguard established themselves firmly, likely, preparing to retreat when the burning city will cut off the path for the Frenchmen's advance.

They were wise, choosing their position in the narrow passage between the church and the market square where the cavalry could not attack with its full speed and crushing power, having to be divided into thin chains of defenceless riders, an easy prey for their longbows. They didn't take into account that now they were facing Sephiroth, new Sephiroth who had learned from his mistakes in Flanders, who no longer underestimated them for their lower social origin and surmised lack of skills.

The silver-haired knight ordered a halt on the outskirts of the town and, before plunging into the fiery hell, made sure that they had enough time to deal with the enemy and retreat before the burning city would collapse on them, a matter whereto he didn't want to give scanty attention. Upon receiving the news from his stepfather, he immediately took five dozens of his closest vassals, including Alber, and left, having said his farewells to Genesis.

On their way to Evreux they were met by the grim sight, the one he could expect from the Englishmen, yet that same one he was always trying to get used to and failing every time. Corpses were hanging on the stretched out branches of verdant trees, their black silhouettes swinging in faint summer breeze which bore smells of fresh flowers mixed with charred wood and flesh. Per se, they all died meaningless, needless deaths.

Summer and death never blended together, for him remaining separate parts of two separate worlds. Summer was life.

It hurt to watch, always. For that same reason Sephiroth was glad Genesis waited a little with his words. If he knew the redhead loved him, it would only make his duties more painful and uneasy.

Sephiroth resolutely dismissed all unnecessary at that moment memories and thoughts, putting his helmet on. As always, the world narrowed down to the scraps of images flashing through tiny slits. Calmly thrusting his arm forward so that all vassals were able to see his gesture, he silently ordered an advance, boldly plunging into the veil of smoke with pungent smell of smouldering wood.

There were no banners flying, no music played, and this engagement will not be remembered in any books or manuscripts. It was a nameless battle, the one which will never beget legends, a faceless, inglorious death.

The only sounds, surrounding them, were staccato sequences of hoofbeat and crackling of flames, heard from the sides.

Empty streets slid by. Lucky inhabitants contrived to get out of the city alive, others lay dead in dirt. The cavalcade passed a couple of corpses in poor armour that sprawled face down with long arrows protruding from their backs. Blind windows listlessly stared at the horsemen in blue and yellow when they swept by the abandoned dwellings.

As Sephiroth and his vassals neared the market square, the signs of battle became more obvious - more dead in gambesons with spears or short swords, both English and French, more destruction, more blood. The smoke no longer hung in the air and Sephiroth took a deep breath through little holes in his helmet.

They ran across the Englishmen accidentally. The cavalry switched its pace from steady trot to careful steps when a long arrow flew from around the corner and powerlessly pecked the wall of some abandoned repair shop. The first archer missed, yet Sephiroth wasn't willing to take any more chances.

"Dismount!"

The knights hastily abandoned horses to the care of their squires who weren't to take any part in the upcoming engagement unless absolutely necessary. Forming straight lines with Sephiroth in front, the vassals raised their shields in a way Roman infantry did a millennium ago and unhurriedly began moving forward. Laterally the formation resembled a steel snake, slowly meandering along the narrow street. Having turned around the corner, Sephiroth saw the enemy's detachment about two hundred yards ahead, lined up with longbows higher than the shooters. The silver-haired knight didn't have time to estimate their numbers, for a short command ensued and dozens of arrows shot up in the air in a deadly arch across the skies.

"Close up!"

The wooden, covered with steel bands shields, linked up as scales and most arrows harmlessly stuck their steel heads into their burnished painted surfaces. A quiet gasp somewhere behind told him one archer hadn't missed yet, judging by the loud curse, the knight's wound didn't seem serious.

If they could close the distance between the archers, rendering their deadly powers useless, the battle would be won. Sephiroth's eyes narrowed as he reached out and effortlessly broke off a long arrow that protruded from his shield. The gesture was subconscious, his thoughts on the enemy's formations ahead.

The snake quivered, serpentined forward, steel boots hitting the paved street in a monotonous macabre rhythm. The archers shot again, killing the knight to his left with an arrow that went right through the slit and the eye socket, then again, wounding another vassal from the close range, but most of his knight remained intact, protected by shields.

They could have run, only their leader realized it too late when their steel rows broke as a nutshell, shields fell to the side, swords were bared and, filling the air with enraged cries, Sephiroth's detachment swiftly breached the final gap.

After that the battle turned into slaughter.

The English ranks mostly consisted of light archers, protected only by gambesons with the Earl's of Warwick colours, a feeble obstacle to their swords. Sephiroth raised his blade and struck, not seeing who he hit, freed the flamboyant curve, thrust again. Blood sprinkled with every move, followed by desperate yells and muffled sounds of swords hitting his shield.

Then he stepped on someone's squirming body, yet could not divert attention to see who the person was. An archer, clenching the gaping wound in his stomach, tried to crawl out of the bloody medley. A knight to his left beheaded him in a swift flowing movement.

As Sephiroth's detachment surrounded the Englishmen, tightening the ring, utter mayhem ensued. The enemy's formation broke, separate archers and infantrymen managed to break free, bloody, staggering, only to fall victim to their squires' swords. No Englishman walked away alive from Evreux that day, no knight was set free for ransom. Sephiroth had dead women and children, hanging on the trees to rot, in his eyes and for that he did not grant any of them mercy.

The last infantryman dashed under his feet with a loud yell, attempting to strike at his legs. The flamboyant curve flashed, falling askance with senseless precision and cutting his arm off; Sephiroth wasted the next instant to push the howling man aside. It was becoming hard to breathe in the helmet and he tore it off, holding his face up to the gusts of wind.

The battle was over.

Wearily wiping his damp face with a bloody hand, Sephiroth watched his knights, as they scattered around the carnage to finish off last enemies and loot the bodies. He allowed his vassals to keep the gold found on the dead Englishmen, yet never deigned to scavenge.

As always, the emotional and mental strain of the engagement drained him, and soon he will be a tired wreck, preferably not in front of his vassals. Beckoning his squire, Sephiroth mounted with the latter's help, which was a sign for everyone else to tackle up.

"Are you all right, messire?"

The silver-haired knight absently nodded and clutched the rein of his jet-black steed. The cavalcade slowly stretched along the street, his knights chattering cheerfully about the recent victory achieved with little loss. None of them even suspected how much it cost him, their leader, without whom the detachment would be fusilladed from the longbows before they even neared the enemy.

Evreux was burning, nearly entire half of the city engulfed by flames, and thick smoke hung low, causing him to cough, covering his nose and mouth. The settlement was destroyed, its inhabitants scattered in the nearby woods so none was there to extinguish the fires. Perhaps, they will come back and rebuild it one day. Maybe, they won't.

Suddenly Sephiroth noticed a small frame in the street to his left. Ordering the detachment to continue towards the exit, he turned his horse and approached the sight, feeling a clot forming in his throat.

Two houses on both sides of the street were blazing, one has crumbled, the other was still standing boldly, as an old veteran oak struck by lightning. Between them a lone child, at whose feet his mother's body was sprawled, stood motionlessly.

A strong gust of wind threw a handful of scarlet sparks and ash into his face. The knight cupped his hands over his eyes but once the burning sensation abated, saw that the woman's head was bashed with a blunt weapon, a cudgel or a mace, and most likely she was dead.

The boy, not older than eight or nine, stood on the other side and couldn't see the fatal wound.

Children of his age did not understand death; for them it was a somewhat bewitching slumber and he witnessed those lone silhouettes sit by the corpses of their parents for hours, awaiting them to wake up.

Sephiroth dismounted and warily approached the blond boy, whom he could not leave there to burn in the impending inferno, yet there was no fear in the child's brilliant blue eyes. The boy simply looked heartbreakingly lost, shifting his gaze from the knight to his mother, whose clothing already began to smoulder.

At times it seemed like he could not breathe, only it was but a delusion.

"What is you name?" The viscount softly whispered, dishevelling the child's blond slightly spiky hair.

"Cloud."

He was not afraid, not a child any longer and not yet an adult, a shard, whose life was shattered by the war and who did not understand any of it yet.

"She is asleep, Cloud," Sephiroth continued, removing the glove and taking the child's small hand. He obeyed, mechanically letting the knight guide him away from the carnage. Cloud did not object as he picked him up and placed in the saddle in front, then mounted with much ado. Vulnerable brilliant blue eyes remained serious, no longer childlike, not yet cold and dispassionate mature. He did not whimper or cry when his mother disappeared in thick shroud of smoke, nor did he try to return, just asked, "When is she going to wake up?"

"Soon," he promised, closing his eyes and clapping to his spurs. The jet-black steed swept by the street as a short lightning, carrying the knight and the orphan child out of the burning town.

On the meadow outside Evreux the silver-haired knight dismounted and helped the boy. He didn't know what to do with Cloud now, thinking that, maybe, he could set him up with the cooks or servants.

Or simply give him a golden coin and forget about his existence.

Resting against the handle of his sword, Sephiroth stood motionless and scarlet sheens dancing on his steel plate, along the flamboyant blade, in bright emerald eyes likened him to some ancient bloodthirsty god of war.

A lone child froze several steps behind, watching him, as though blaming for something he could not have done.

No matter how he tried, he could not stop anything. He could not change anything.

Unless…

The gloved hand rose, absent-mindedly reached out for the ashen snowflake tangled in waist-length silver hair and, crumpled in the steel fingers, it scattered in the wind in a myriad of grey weightless specks of dust.


	18. Chapter XVII: Arrogant and unforgiving

_A/N:_ _**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_C__onstable – _a post equal to modern Commander in Chief in Medieval France. Usually he led the vanguard of the King's army. At that time the Count of Guiennes held that position.

_The Black Prince_ – an alias given to Edward, the Prince of Wales, Edward's III eldest son.

* * *

_**Chapter X**__**VII.**_

_**Arrogant and unforgiving.**_

"…_Their graceful forms in steel,_

_Their hearts in true honour cased…" (Medieval poetry)._

As always, it rolled in unexpectedly and was gone before dawn cleared the night skies, a wave of fright so tangible Sephiroth could nearly feel it rising in his throat. In the heart of battle he rarely felt anything, all movements woven into studied patterns of steps and thrusts, mind so strained there was hardly a place for any feelings. But as the knight lay on the furs alone, desperately trying to fall asleep, clinging onto the soft pillow, it came back, wrapping him in the blackness of endless wings, smothering him.

He could have been that knight who fell with an arrow in his eye socket, he could have been a woman with a bashed head, he could have been a corpse, listlessly swinging in the faint wind.

He did not want to die. He has just confessed his feelings to his lover, he barely tasted love and everything it begot. He had so much ahead of him to simply accept the possibility his life could be wasted in a day, maybe, two.

He was not ready to die.

If Sephiroth closed his eyes, he would see a barren grizzled field, covered in poppies, if he opened them there would be English yeomen and bodies in the mud. At times he felt like dust, human dust, so helpless he was against the beast the war was. Genesis made it more bearable, Genesis made it more difficult.

Rise, throw a cloak over bare shoulders, slip through the curtain shading the entrance to the marquee, freeze, catching breath, inhale scents of precious summer night, maybe, the last, calming down, dismissing craven thoughts.

Until they come back next time.

* * *

Among the locals it was known as the knight's spur, a tall spear-like flower crowned with burgundy, light lilac or blue petals. It grew anywhere, from vast fields and meadows, to nobles' or peasants' gardens and wilderness; it bloomed any time in summer, like a weed. Without looking down Sephiroth took a seat on the ground, creasing frail flowers, and vacantly resumed cleaning his blade with a piece of cloth. He didn't even look at his hands, covered in dried blood, or wasted efforts to wipe scarlet stains from his neck and cheeks. Silver locks fell over his face as the knight slightly stooped to get at the furthest end of the flamboyant pattern of steel.

They were too late. What remained of the plundered St-Germaine-en-Laye, formerly an estate with a rich palace and a monastery for Dominican nuns, was burning, the sight mimicking Evreux with morbid precision – the inhabitants were slain or scattered, streets mantled in a grey shroud of smoke, and acrid scent of smouldering wood persistently hung in the air. His stepfather was enraged, having beheaded two prisoners they captured during the small skirmish with the remains of English troops greedy enough to stay at the settlement after their main forces have already left; three more sat on the grass by the partially destroyed wall, shackled and exchanging frightened grim glances.

Sephiroth let go of the sword's handle and wearily rested his head against the breached defensive wall, fiddling with the stem of a lilac knight's spur.

More than two weeks of constant march turned out to be nearly vain – the outskirts of Paris were burnt, half of Philip's army was still on its way, the other, poorer trained and equipped, trapped between the capital, river Siene and the English detachments. Paris was on the verge of becoming panic-stricken, people barricading streets and houses or fleeing, and King Philippe, despite beginning the campaign successfully, seemed to have lost any acumen and was making one mistake after another, vacillating, rushing about the plain between Poissy and Saint-Cloud, where two principle bridges west of Paris were situated, after which things were unfolding the way he could easily predict.

At least Rouen held against the enemy's attacks.

Clear-flashing emerald eyes shifted from prisoners to Louis and his retinue settled therebeside. His stepfather was engrossed in a lively conversation with his vassals and behind the silhouettes of horsemen, standing out against the dull skies, high towers of Paris could be seen. He knew that as soon as the skirmish was over his stepfather sent a messenger to the King's camp and, when His Majesty's answer came, their armies would join, hopefully, without much resistance from the Englishmen.

Meanwhile the servants and squires set about opening up the marquees. Sephiroth dropped his eyes, hoping to have some moments to rest after another of his nearly sleepless nights before having that alarming conversation with Genesis. As always, when it came to love, the knight didn't feel half as confident as on the battlefield. Did he choose the right time? Were his lover's feeling reciprocal, or was he seeing something that wasn't there? Moreover, what madness had gotten into him when he sealed their forbidden affair with the strongest of possible promises?

However, the last question was the easiest one. He loved Genesis and for the first genuine feeling that made him feel younger, bolder, stronger he would risk that much. Therein he was no longer afraid.

"Sephiroth," the knight jerked his head up; quickly he became so thoughtful the Count neared him without notice. "You disappointed me today. I ordered you to stay with the prisoners, yet your detachment ended up involved in the engagement anyhow. Care to explain yourself?"

Sephiroth's eyes narrowed in slight confusion; nothing of the usually benign smile remained on his stepfather's face, now showing clear signs of something deep, inveterate. The knight believed he had made an apt decision and, besides, the matter was so minor it was hard to imagine the reason anyone would bring it up.

"I merely followed my instincts and acted the way I thought had been the best at the moment, father." He averred in an unfaltering voice, inducing a dark flare to light up in his stepfather's eyes. Always knowing the Count to be a cautious and wise man, Sephiroth could not understand this sudden fit of spite. Given certain deserved liberties at his stepfather's court, the viscount did nothing neither wrong nor exceeding his authority.

His words did not soothe the Count's malicious disappointment, eliciting yet another harsh replica, "Hence, I am expecting you to carry out my orders without any doubts. I am the commander of my armies and you won't question my capability to make decisions in future. I hope I made myself clear."

"Of course, father," he replied after the withdrawing Count, more genuine wonder than coldness in his tone. Sephiroth never tried to take his stepfather's place at the head of their troops, following some preposterous vagary, for he didn't need to steal anyone's acmes. It must have been the bitterness of another loss that caused the latter's acerbic unfairness.

Shaking his head to dismiss the unpleasant residue this talk left, Sephiroth pushed the wall aside and straightened with much ado. The steel plates weighed down upon his shoulders more than usually, the heaviness similar to the one hidden deep inside him when he was seeing bloodied streets and trees, hanging with black corpses. Why haven't anyone taken care of them yet?

Having halted a first bustling servant he saw, the viscount quietly ordered. "I want these bodies removed and buried belive."

The man nodded with haste and fright, darting a glance at the appalling display of death, mumbling, "Right away, messire," and passed by with a fatigued expression on his chapped face.

Viscount du Bugey heavily sighed and headed for his marquee.

Genesis has already been waiting for him. Alber must have secretly let him in, as it was tacitly agreed between them, and resumed guarding the entrance. Sephiroth wasn't afraid the youth could be listening.

His redheaded lover casually settled on the furs, playing with that familiar wooden sliver he hasn't seen for a while. The knight threw his cloak off, removed the gloves and the steel plate, all silently, casting occasional glances at the unusually thoughtful and serious redhead. Something was going to happen, Sephiroth felt, yet he wasn't sure if it were to turn out well.

"Why don't you say something, Genesis?" The question rang a bit wearily, for Sephiroth was getting tired of silence. He tried to meet azure eyes, yet his ever so sparkling sapphires were hidden beneath the sooty long eyelashes, showing both jocosity and wavering.

"I am just happy you returned alive," the words finally passed the redhead's lips in a melodic streamlet, having touched the chords of his soul none was ever able to touch and having revealed feelings he never thought he was capable of feeling. Yet, the knight's eyes were riveted to his lover's nimble fingers, nervously playing with the same sliver. Something hid beneath this seemingly careless façade.

"You don't know how glad I am," Sephiroth decided not to rush events, throwing his hair back and shaking it to let it loosely cascade over his shoulders. A slightly mocking smile froze on thin lips, one corner quirked up more than another.

Genesis froze on the dark furs, all flames and gold, like molten amber in his veins, every curve, glance, gesture radiating feline grace and seductive call. "Sit with me," Sephiroth finished taking his armour off and complied with the redhead's request. His lover's hands immediately wrapped around his shoulders, the lithe arch sliding against his back until the auburn head ended up behind his, lips pressed to his hair, slow breath tickling his skin even through the silver veil. The wooden sliver fell on his lap. "Remember, I told you about truth."

The knight nodded gently not to hinder those warm lips continuing their game. "I found a way for us to triumph. I found a way to raze Avignon."

"Why would you need to destroy the capital of the Catholic faith?" Sephiroth asked for the sole reason of saying something. Certainly, Genesis could not be serious. It was suicide.

His lover moved away, slight vexation betrayed by his voice, as he blurted out, "Isn't it obvious? I want to bereave the Church of its absolute powers."

Sephiroth mirthlessly chuckled, "It is impossible, Genesis."

The redhead measured him with another disappointed look on his beautiful face.

"Why are you saying this without having even heard what I have to say?"

Sephiroth reached out to take his lover's hand yet it quickly moved away as though the redhead was afraid he'd burn it. Genesis could not earnestly think about another war, could he? The knight dropped his head, nearly whispering, "Your plans will only cause yet another war to break out, a civil war this time. Do you honestly want to see two parts of France fighting against each other and our enemies using it to their advantage?"

"You'll defeat Edward in this campaign and the civil war will not break out because, if we do the way I suggest it, Avignon will fall before Philippe will be able to comprehend its loss."

Those were words of a monk who had never fought a single battle. Sephiroth helplessly shook his head, feeling he had little ability to defeat his lover in eloquence; at times people created delusions, saw the world for what they wanted it to be, and with his obstinacy dissuading Genesis was hardly possible. Sephiroth found it was better to dismiss the whole conversation. Or at least try.

"Let's argue about it later. I will have to meet with His Majesty later this day and would prefer not to appear before the war council tired."

He attempted to reason with his lover, but no such luck; in his state it had the same effect as reasoning with a volcano that wiped Pompeii off the face of the earth.

"_For whether is greater, he that sitteth at meat, or he that serveth?_" Genesis dramatically exclaimed, citing from the Bible. Sapphire flames flashed at him, scorching with destructive power of his ire. "You have a choice of being a slave, benighted and blinded by religion all your life, or rebelling against it, earning your rightful place among the greatest names in history and you're vacillating!"

"Genesis," it was hard to maintain his deadly calm, yet Sephiroth contrived to utter his words indifferently, "I am not leading unholy Crusades against Popes for the sake of glory or vengeance, in mine, yours or any other's name." The notion of starting another war after the English campaign and plunder alone did not make him overjoyed. He preferred order, and Genesis was insane. Emerald eyes narrowed, watching his lover's face. Or, perhaps, the redhead was just self-seeking and arrogant, playing with his sincere feelings by trying to use him in his schemes.

The pain following this realization cut into his heart as a hound, latching onto its prey's throat.

It was a game from the beginning, where the stakes were his wealth, his power, his reputation, one last missing piece of Genesis' conundrum. Sephiroth recoiled from his lover, swiftly rising and crossing the marquee, arms folded on his chest. Looking at Genesis elicited something close to disgust now, and even as he tried to fight it, the feeling would not go away.

"For God's sake, Sephiroth, stop pretending you care about the lot of those peasants in your army!"

Genesis' words didn't help at that. Throwing his country into further mayhem because his lover lost his mother was hardly an option for reasons more significant than the one he has just mentioned.

"To avenge your mother's death was your choice and none else has to pay for your decisions but you." Emerald eyes stared at his lover with stern coolness. "After all, you could have chosen differently."

Sephiroth realized he had made a mistake when Genesis paled, unmercifully biting at his lower lip, as though trying to tear it to pieces.

"_They_ burnt my mother on the main square of Toulouse before the crowd as a heretic and a witch she's never been, and you are accusing me of killing a dozen of fanatics and murderers! How can you…" his redheaded lover gushed in ire, so close to loathing him, the clergy, likely, even the whole world.

"I am not accusing you…" a vain attempt to explain anything.

"Then tell me why you lied you loved me!"

That had done it. For a moment he didn't know what to say, looking at his lover as though seeing him for the first time, then rebuked quietly, wearily, emerald eyes widening in profound flutter, "I did not lie". A schemer and a liar was quick to suspect circumvention and hypocrisy in pectoral words. A liar and a schemer… Genesis…

Why?

The question burnt his lips, like ice, only never to be voiced out.

"How could you love me," the redhead spat out, shaking, "if you are unable to accept me with my past? Did you say those words to cajole me? Or, maybe, you don't even know what it means, to love someone?" The redhead was screaming now, melodic voice anguished, and Sephiroth hid his face in his palms. He would have done more not to look at Genesis at the moment as he yelled, "Like, I thought, I loved you!"

The words were as fractured icicles, brittle, falling through silence and frozen instants, breaking with faint melodic chime.

Everything inside him was numb by now.

When Sephiroth took his palms away from his face, Genesis was already gone, the curtain shading the entrance to his marquee vehemently quivering, flutters slowly subsiding as he watched, and then the cloth stilled.

* * *

Despite being hastily decorated for the presence of such important persons, the room in the corner tower of Paris resembled a prison cell. Sparse tapestries with the Royal Lily could not hide barren greyness of masonry or shield the premises from draught. A couple of luxurious armchairs and a burnished table of cherry wood, brought in by complaisant servants, looked unnatural, superfluous. Through the loophole in the wall grey light of the fading summer day could barely illumine the room. Through it Sephiroth saw scraps of the field below, dotted with multi-colored marquees of the King Philippe's army, cloaked in mist of the nascent evening. The bells of the Notre Dame have just rung eight times.

As they entered the capital through the gates of St-Cloud, Paris greeted them with the grim sight of empty streets instead of the usual ebullient vivacity. Most inhabitants abandoned the gates, now heavily guarded by the detachments of Genovese crossbowmen and John of Bohemia's knights. Sephiroth suspected that the possible unrest among the citizens was another reason, to which the foreign mercenaries owed their presence in Paris.

The knight shifted his grave glance from the loophole to his only interlocutors he was stuck with while his stepfather paid his honours to the King. He didn't know the short broad-shouldered man who named himself the Earl of Moyne and the principal knight for the blind king of Bohemia, yet it was hard not to recognize the glib, impetuous Earl de Alençon, Philippe's younger brother, dressed in a sumptuous, lined with ermine cloak and a dark-blue velvet cotardie.

The latter was speaking, vehemently swinging his arms.

"…My brother, I swear by the bones of the Holy Thomas Aquinas, is too cautious! As a poor reprisal for the fall of Caen, then, I beseeched him to attack the English army or at least to grant me the right to challenge that arrogant Black Prince to an honest combat, but…"

Propping up his head with his arm, Sephiroth tried to dismiss the annoying clamour in his ears, staring at them with unseeing dull-emerald eyes.

How could he be so wrong about people, who were dear to him, his stepmother first, then his lover and the Count? How could he make so many mistakes in understanding them, in trusting them, but then, maybe, all his life was just someone's careless mistake. Otherwise, why did his real father choose to abandon him?

And why did he see sincerity and genuine affection wherein only a hollow arrogant mask fleered in his face?

These poignant thoughts have been haunting him since the argument he had had with his lover earlier. The King's brother asked him something, Sephiroth gifted the Earl of Alençon with a passing glance, giving a malapropos reply, "He is just sixteen," thereupon realizing that they have no longer been speaking about the Prince of Wales.

The Earl waved him aside, diverting his attention to the knight from the Bohemian retinue. Rushing about the small cell-like room, the King's brother reminded Sephiroth of a thin pompous heron. He was a vain fool and Viscount du Bugey had no patience for fools that day.

Genesis tried to play with him, twisting his love and devotion to his selfish aims and whims, using him, and he fell for that beguiling devil's charm.

It hurt. It angered. It wounded his dignity, his heart, shattered his integrity, this simple, human, "Why?"

He must have whispered the last question aloud, for Alençon halted in his tracks, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Did you just question God's wisdom, Viscount du Bugey? He might not bear thy vanities…"

Sephiroth tossed his silver head, managing a hollow smile. He wasn't paying any heed to their conversation and God's wisdom was of little concern to him. If besieged Paris was a result of His wisdom, the knight would rather rely on his own.

"You were hearing it wrong, sire." Sephiroth hoped that the feigned respect rang convincingly enough. Alençon was His Majesty's brother, and it said everything.

Satisfied, the Earl spoke to his other tacit interlocutor, when steps were heard and the rusty door creaked, letting a messenger through it.

He made a deep bow, unexpectedly addressing the silver-haired knight. "There is a man by the name of Genesis who wants to speak to you, messire du Bugey. Should I let him in?"

At first emerald eyes sparked with joy, Sephiroth straightened in the armchair, long fingers clenching around the wooden armrests with force. Genesis came to ask forgiveness. That had to be the reason.

However, he didn't have time to utter a single word as Alençon's disdainful laughter rang in the room, drowning his joy in anxiety.

"I don't know anyone by the name of Genesis, do you, Sephiroth? Is it some vagrant, soliciting for a coin?"

Thereupon, with a sinking heart, Sephiroth realized he was not alone and he could not see his lover. What was Genesis thinking trying to find him when he was held up with the nobles? What was he supposed to say now? Invite his lover in and kiss in front of those… those…

Sephiroth sank back into the armchair, whispering with the voice muffled from hidden despair.

"He has to be. Chuck him out and see to it that he never comes back."

"Yes, messire."

Following the servant with his burning eyes, as though trying to stop him from delivering those deadly words to his lover, Sephiroth could only think of what he had just done. Alençon resumed his idle chatter, to which he, a dead hollow mask, paid no heed anew.

Will Genesis' pride bear this humiliation? Will his lover understand that he could not have said otherwise, that he… he never meant it? Sephiroth was not sure.

Everything inside him screamed to overtake Genesis, yet as moments passed by the silver-haired knight continued sitting in the chair, clenching the armrest as though determined to break it, pale, anguished, until another messenger delivered him from this torment, announcing with proper solemnity.

"His Majesty, King of France, Philippe VI de Valois!"

The doors flung open and therein stood the King with his stepfather to his right.

* * *

Horses were tearing along the bank of Siene through misty night, their vague silhouettes and muffled hoofbeat likening riders to the nebulous guardians of the Nibelung treasure. The dark capes were fluttering as wings of a mythical volatile beast. Splashing water and skirting the swampy clumps of rush, the small detachment continued its way towards the bridge at Saint-Cloud, whereupon the horsemen dismounted, bridging the last five or so hundred of yards on foot.

On the opposite bank the bright dots of scarlet fires loomed in the distance, and with his keen eyes he could see a dark vague silhouette of the enemy's sentry.

Sephiroth Mensil, Viscount du Bugey, dismounted first, silently gesturing for his knights to carry on with the King's order. He agreed that Philippe made the only wise decision possible at this time, to torch the bridge. The English army could not cross the river deep enough to slow down or even stop their advance for now.

They were dressed lightly, unsuitably for battle, wearing gambesons only to hide from the vigilant eyes of the sentries. Each carrying a huge bundle of twigs, the horsemen neared the bridge unnoticed, concealed by the tall stems of reed. The mud was champing under Sephiroth's feet. While the first knights set about tying the bundles to the wooden frame of the bridge, the viscount directed their movements so that his vassals acted harmoniously, immediately and as fast as possible. An oiled torch was in his hand, waiting to be lit.

There was another reason Sephiroth wanted to complete this task as soon as possible, besides the obvious one. He wanted to amend his involuntarily committed negligence between him and Genesis, not truly knowing what he would say and how.

Was it now easier to forget Genesis recently was a part of his life?

He did not want to forget.

As the last bundle was tied to the bridge, Alber lit the torch and from it the flames eagerly spread over the twigs, engulfing the dry brushwood in the blink of an eye.

The lurid reflections of fires danced on the dark waters and while Sephiroth stood, patiently waiting, the bridge finally caught flames and pillars of smoke, black as night, crept along the Siene.

The dark frames began to rush about on the opposite bank, yet the wind carried their yells away from his ears. The silver-haired viscount waited until the wooden structure gave in, collapsing under its own weight, hissing, as flames fought water in an unequal battle. Tomorrow the remains will be washed down by the river.

Although the Englishmen managed to repair the bridge at Poissy, the bridge at St-Cloud was no more.

At least for now, Sephiroth hoped, Paris could sleep in peace.

The knights left as silently as they came and returned to the safety of the capital's walls without any losses.

There Sephiroth decided to send someone after his lover, choosing the orphan boy Cloud he had saved from the burning Evreux the day before.

* * *

Genesis angrily watched the narrow, quivering in the trees path of moonlight, as the warm summer wind played with succulent leaves. The night was magnificent with clear jewels of stars blinking above, filled with mysterious whispers and scents of nature, yet that day beauty only annoyed him.

At first the redhead didn't want to come at all. His lover called him the criminal and then, when he swallowed his wounded pride, Sephiroth scornfully chucked him out as though he was a house pet. If that was love, he would rather see Sephiroth hating him.

He… he would rather not see his lover at all. Never.

He should have been smarter than allowing his feelings for the silver-haired knight flourish, he should have seen they were doomed from the very beginning. What could mitigate his pain now?

Blood? Hatred? Hollow?

Sephiroth appeared silently, having gracefully slipped between dark silhouettes of trees, silver and pallor and emerald of spring grass. Genesis' heart contracted. Sephiroth was always gorgeous, his form and gestures chosen to torment him for what he was about to do next, torment with visions of passion and taste of his lips.

Torment him forever.

The silver-haired knight neared him irresolutely, wary steps silent on the ground, liquid silver flowing around his perfect slender frame.

"Genesis…" he began unsure of what to add. The always confident Sephiroth did not know what to say. He smirked, azure eyes maliciously glistening in darkness.

Genesis made his choice. Genesis wanted him to leave. Genesis knew what to say and how to say it so that the knight would leave, cruelly interrupting his lover's, "Genesis, I came to apologize…"

"It is too late, Sephiroth. I don't want it any more, the delusion we had, the sweet siren's song we shared. It no longer satisfies me."

"What changed so rapidly?" Sephiroth inquired with a graceful tilt of his head. Somehow Genesis was seeing these little details, from the sparks in emerald eyes to the thinning line of his beautiful lips. Was he confused? Hurt? It was hard to tell, always.

"I cannot bear your social superiority. You will always look down upon me, whether you wish it or not."

Emerald eyes were screaming that it was not true. But it was. Sephiroth was so full of himself he might have not even noticed what he had said, ordering some bloke to chuck him out.

"This is a petty reason," his lover tried, he really did. The only thing Sephiroth did not know was that Genesis came here with a decision.

"Perhaps," he agreed easily, ironically, eyeing his lover as his legs carried him around the silver frame in circles. "Just as my vengeance is petty, and my mother's death is petty. What is not petty then? The God's gift of Truth?"

He did not expect the frail, genuine, "What we had, was not petty."

Genesis stopped, wounded by the mere thought his lover was lying to him again. Was he? Was he not?

"We had. In the past. We no longer have it."

"So, this is the end then."

Genesis laughed at this half-question, half-statement.

"This is but a beginning. When I besiege Avignon, you'd better decide against stymieing me. I might not be the same person who spared your life the first time we met."

Sephiroth recoiled from Genesis, as though seeing the latter for what he really was, devil's spawn behind an angelic disguise.

_Nomen mihi Legio est, quia multi sumus. __My name is __Legion__, for we are many._

For some reasons his lover decided not to wear his cold mask, showing how hurt he really was, since there was no anger in him, slight disdain, maybe, but, overwhelming everything else, rang the endless sadness in his whisper, "Do you even hear yourself now, Genesis?"

Has Sephiroth ever allowed the final word to rest with anyone but him?

He was gone after that, disappeared as a shadow between dark silhouettes of tree trunks, a silver spark of fading moonlight, yet his eyes with pain sealed beneath the emerald ice were still carved into Genesis' memory, bereaving him of any sense of false triumph.

Who did he triumph over? Himself? Who did he hurt more? Himself?

Who did he cheat?

Himself?

The air smelled of exquisite coolness of sandalwood oil, just like his skin during their last night together, the intoxicating freshness of residue Sephiroth's presence left blending with poignant longing of losing him, losing because of jealousy and arrogance, losing because he was afraid to grasp what life was lavishly offering him.

Genesis inhaled, trembling, frozen in some broken-hearted expectation his lover would come back yet it was foolish to await the knight after what he had said; and as the redhead was walking away, barely realizing he has just condemned everything they shared, there was no expected satisfaction or the likes in his heart, only the ugly aching void, so familiar, for it has been gaping inside all his life.

The dead should remain dead.


	19. Chapter XVIII: Kings and pawns

_A/N: _The only map of old Paris I found was in French, so I kept the original names of the streets/places and if I misspelled them, I apologize. The map was small :)

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_The garden of Gethsemane –_a garden where Jesus prayed before Judas' betrayal and crucifixion. The Bible quote is from his Gethsemane's prayer.

_Hauberk–_a long chain mail with a 'hood'.

_Joie de vivre (fr.)_ – buoyancy.

* * *

_**Chapter XVIII.**_

_**Kings and pawns.**_

"_O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, Thy will be done." (Matthew, 26:39, KJV)._

They were kissing, Genesis' arms twined around Sephiroth's neck, the latter's eyes closed, hidden behind the silvery crescents of long lashes. Both lovers sat on the spot of nearly barren ground, yet a clearly outlined boundary separated them. Sephiroth's legs were drowning in knee-high ashen grass and scarlet poppies dropped their crowns onto the redhead's knees in eternal recalcitrant hubris.

They were kissing, lips devouring lips, and in his sleep Genesis was smiling without the knowledge or the feeling of that smile, so pristine and devoid of any signs of caustic irony it could have belonged to a child.

Or to a dying saint hermit.

He was neither.

In his sleep the redhead involuntarily reached for his lover, his hand blindly groping for warmth and when it found only coldness of empty sheets he awoke with a faint moan, "Sephiroth?"

The answer was silence.

He repeated his lover's name louder and then memories of their recent dissent came flooding back to him, begetting waves of aching ennui. How many days passed since Sephiroth had left? Two? Three?

Without him it was a slowly crawling eternity.

When ire abated, when, alone, Genesis had time to think about what had happened between them, one frightening realization followed another. He didn't just lose his lover, which was painful enough, he lost any hope of fulfilling his vengeance. Without the knight he was just another monk with enough effrontery to instigate a bloody carnage in one village, yet his inner flames were scarce to light up the overwhelming fires of war. He was left off where he began. Everything he's been building with Sephiroth for months crumbled away to dust in short evanescent moments.

Shivering with cold of the chilly wind and shrinking from the thoughts lurking in his shattered mind, Genesis hastily slipped into his clothes and left the tavern room. He never stayed in one place for as many as even two nights, for then the longing became unbearable.

The main hall, small and scarcely alight, was empty with but one servant cleaning the tables. Genesis took a seat by one of them, gestured for the servant girl and extended her a copper.

"A mug of ale," he quietly responded to her cheerful smile.

"Right away, generous sire."

The wooden mug appeared on the table nearly in a blink of an eye. The girl must have been aware of most guests' preferences.

Genesis morosely glanced at the brownish liquid with barely any foam, took a sip, grimacing at its cheap taste, and crustily placed the mug back onto the wooden tabletop to notice that the girl hasn't left. Timidly fiddling with her dirty apron, she looked into his bottomless hollow eyes and remarked with the same sunny notes in her voice as the smile moments ago.

"Messire seems sad and heartbroken. I've met so many nice gents sitting here everyday, trying to forget their troubles with a mug of beer, but if it's a lady you are thinking about, don't torment yourself by thinking. There is a place by St. Augustine's chapel you can buy flowers at." She tenderly touched his shoulder, uttering a girlish laugh. "And then ask her forgiveness. If I were that girl, I would not hesitate. You are very beautiful, messire…"

Was it a suggestion?

"What makes you think I am pining over a lady?" Genesis retorted with enough harshness to obfuscate the servant girl. Her hand moved away, eyes dropped to the ground.

"I am sorry," she pitifully whispered, all _joie de vivre_ shattered in her trembling voice, as though the redhead cared. A woman's yell rang from the kitchen and the girl disappeared behind the creaking door.

Genesis nearly laughed, imagining himself bringing flowers to his lover, yet the laughter stuck in his throat, seized by another wave of painful realization.

The truth was that his lover wasn't coming back to him like a beaten dog after his numerous whimsical scenes. People like him, with dignity and self respect don't do that. He could bring him roses from the King's garden as many times as he wanted, yet it wasn't a solution, as wasn't humiliating himself with adulation.

How does one begin something anew after carelessly and cruelly ending it? How does one rebuild something so meticulously destroyed?

Having finished his ale, the redhead swiftly rose and, succumbing to sudden overwhelming wave of despair, followed the girl to the kitchen. Azure eyes were clouded with blood red mist, heart intermittently throbbing somewhere in his throat, painfully clenching it as with someone's palms.

A nameless little toy with no dignity or pride, she didn't resist, as his lips harshly leeched onto hers, only whimpered with some innate readiness, perhaps, used to satisfy whims of men like him, desperate, angry, lost men.

_You are very beautiful, messire._

She was warm, scraps of flesh between numerous layers of simple light green dress and trembling lips between his, eagerly arching into his hands as he lifted the skirt, squeezing her bare thighs between his palms, jerking them upwards along the wall.

He was not tender; tenderness was for Sephiroth. He was not loving; love died with the silver spark between dark tree trunks.

She screamed from pain, no longer eager, but frightened, tried to break free, futilely wriggling in his strong arms, a little lively speck. Slapping her to silence those whimpers, he plunged even deeper, drowning in her poignant struggles, pressing her to the dirty kitchen wall between the pots she was cleaning and moving inside her so mercilessly rough.

Something hot flowed down his naked skin.

_They were kissing wrapped up in weightless silver and every touch, every moment of unity gave both of them unearthly satisfaction._

He felt no satisfaction. It faded with the scent of sandalwood oil.

Before anyone saw him Genesis slipped through the back door, leaving the girl on the floor sobbing faintly while streamlets of blood ran along her thighs. She didn't censure him. She didn't even say a single word.

Only that mirthful lively spark died out in her eyes.

Genesis held his trembling hands to his face, snatching at tenuous auburn locks that slipped through his fingers.

She was a virgin. He was wrong, so wrong about everything.

_You are very beautiful, messire._

Is he?

The streets of Paris were nearly empty at that early hour. Most inhabitants still didn't recover after Edward attempted to besiege the capital. However, forced to withdraw, the English King gave in shortly afterwards. Warm summer wind and wan rays of rising sun, cloaked in light clouds, kept Genesis company as he hurried, more like ran, towards Seine. A lone passer-by glanced over his shoulder with such a look on his face as though he has just seen a possessed.

Philippe's army left Paris yesterday, chasing Edward's regiments which began their retreat to join with their Flemish allies. Sephiroth left with them. Genesis desperately hoped his lover would send a herald after him, but the knight didn't.

Genesis didn't know why he was still hoping, and the crushed fool's hope hurt even more.

Why didn't Sephiroth send for him? He would have come.

By the river the redhead ran into a small detachment of Genoese crossbowmen, torpid and tired after the sleepless night of duties. There he turned to the _rue de la Harpe_, an ancient street that led him to the College of Sorbonne. Genesis picked this route subconsciously, by some childish nostalgia drawn to the place where he had spent his student years at.

The huge majestic edifice, crowned with a dome-like roof of a chapel, stretched along the street, more a monument worth admiring from afar than a library and a university. Above it a rainbow was blooming across the vast expanse of cerulean skies, tying eternity with ephemerality. Brighter sunlight was dripping between the variegated stripes. Somewhat timidly Genesis approached the closed wooden doors, decorated with intrepid ornaments of Biblical content, and placed his hand onto the knob.

La Sorbonne was the first place he had good memories of after spending years in monastic cells or travelling with mendicant monks. In its dark, hung with paintings corridors the redhead felt at home, craving to uncover truth beneath the God's word, to discover flaws, which would later help him in his endless struggle.

He lost it with the girl because Sephiroth chose not understand him.

As Genesis stood by the closed door, it began drizzling and several students hurried inside, exchanging loud cheerful remarks. The Sorbonne has been living its own life and little did it care about war, about him, his burnt mother, his lost lover.

It was passing.

The knowledge was eternal.

Deciding against it, Genesis moved his hand away. What good will it do to visit the place of his youthful passions, to walk the same dark mysterious corridors, to hear the solemn stately words of its professors? He couldn't go back and relive it again, no matter how much he wished.

No matter how much he craved he had never spoken those harsh words, nothing would erase them now.

It was raining heavily by now, streets of Paris mantled in a silvery cleansing veil. It meant Seine or Somme could rise and pose a new difficulty to either English or French army. If so, will Sephiroth be able to overcome this obstacle? Will…

Genesis cut himself short with annoyance. No matter how far he ran from himself, his thoughts kept returning to his lover. Having picked up a small stone, he angrily hurled it into the pigeons, carelessly wandering at the bottom of the stairs.

He wanted to die from the inside. It was easier.

It was no longer possible.

* * *

After the French left Paris their army was moving slowly, keeping a steady distance between Edward's regiments, not intending to either overtake or lose them. The English King attempted to besiege the capital, yet its defences held firmly, so, having decided not to waste any more time, he turned towards his Flemish allies. Denuded of troops, the lands north of the capital did not pose any threat to him during that march; Philippe remained his only concern.

They were marching along the Somme now, passing by small villages, little coppices and lucid lakes, resembling huge, staring at the welkin eyes, framed in lashes of succulent grass and brown reed. Here and there the soil became marshy and it took them time to skirt those to prevent carts from being stuck in slush.

The weather favoured the French, though. It rained a little yet never hard enough to slow them down significantly and allow Edward's army, which was more manoeuvrable, leave them behind. By now Sephiroth had a good notion about its numbers, strengths and weaknesses. As the viscount suspected, it mostly consisted of light archers, backed up by smaller numbers of infantry and light cavalry. All in all, the size of the English army could not have exceeded fifteen thousand men, while they had about twice as much, however, for all that he had his concerns and not unfounded at that. Their heavy cavalry was efficient only in a close combat and, if the usual foolish mistakes relapsed, most of its power would be scattered long before the actual engagement.

Yet, Sephiroth hoped his stepfather was smart enough to realize it.

After all, there was little hope for anything else.

Brought up in harsh military environment, his skills with his blade perfected through hours of long debilitating training, he found it hard to harbour hope against reason and every reason in him told that Genesis wasn't coming back. Day after day of long march, night after night spent in solitude something was slowly dying in his heart, like a little vivid spark fallen into oblivion, like a wingless bird. If Genesis loathed their inequality so much, there was no point in keeping such relationships, dragging them along like a profusely bleeding deer, prolonging their agony. It was better to forget.

Maybe, time only was a good remedy; time, which numbed the worst pain and burried the darkest memories until they were no more. After all, he burnt the Flemish villages; serving the French crown, he killed their women and children as punishment for insurgency, and in depth of time even that regret was lost. He was good at forgetting, of turning memories to ash, yet never as good at hoping and fighting for his feelings.

Wearily closing his eyes, Sephiroth dropped his chin and immediately tossed his head, as his skin touched the sizzling hot steel plate. This pain only kept him straight as an armoured pillar, from dawn to dusk, drenched in sweat under the merciless scorching summer sunlight. He could only imagine how unbearable heat became for the infantry mailed in hauberks.

The viscount rode in the middle of the column stretched for hundreds of yards. In front and behind swashed the multi-coloured sea of human bodies and equine croups. Every now and then he felt as though carried away by a turbid stream; then a strong desire to take Genesis' hand, to feel his embrace arose in him, stronger for it was no longer possible, and his heart ached.

Ached. Bled. Longed to come back to that dark corner of the forest by the Seine and say something different. Maybe, then the redhead would have not ended their relationship; or, perhaps, he was fooling himself because this was how he wanted it to be.

"Messire, you look exhausted." The ever-present devoted squire remarked with genuine anxiety. If only Genesis was half as genuine…

Sephiroth straightened with a bitter smile, admitting, "I wasn't sleeping well lately."

That was truth; the reasons were not for the youth to know.

They were passing by familiar places. It didn't take Sephiroth long to understand that the army was marching towards Crecy, that same village where his affair with Genesis began. If he stayed at Chateau de Thil, they would have never met and their destinies would have parted without even being twined, twined so closely.

Did he want it? Did he not?

The French army was approaching the graveyard at Crecy. Evenings neared unhurriedly, bringing chillness and freshness on wings of misty darkness and with those relief rolled in, as his breastplate was cooling and the air in his throat was no longer hot, like in the smithy. Thereupon the swamps along Somme returned to life, filling with songs of night birds and chirr of cicadas. Nature's voices called out to him and, just like before he met his lover, Sephiroth often surrendered to his forgotten habit to take long pointless walks outside the encampment. A lone silent shadow, he strolled deep into the swamp until the fires died out in darkness and then returned to his marquee, back and forth.

Pointlessly.

Minutes blended into hours, hours – into days, days – into weeks…

…Having politely declined the Constable's offer to join them at the Earl de Alençon's marquee for the third time during the last week, Sephiroth alighted and entered his movable tent. Not long ago Genesis used to wait for him inside, but after the redhead left he was feeling its emptiness differently, more acutely, as though it took palpable shapes. His redheaded lover – or should he now think, former lover – took something with him, yet, to keep it, to keep his happiness, Sephiroth was not ready to lead devastating Crusades. It was not worth the outcome.

It was not love.

It had to die.

It will die. He knew.

Having dismissed his squire from his usual duties, the viscount slipped out of his clothing and collapsed onto the furs, lips hungrily pressed to the goblet of cold water. They still smelled of sandalwood, or, maybe, this scent simply haunted him, unwilling to let go, lingering like a reminiscent scintilla of their love wherein nothing else remained.

Having quenched his thirst, Sephiroth crossed his arms under his head and closed his eyes. A light breeze sprung up, flapped the cloth, softly touched shorter locks, scattered them on the pale forehead, whispering something soothing into his ear.

For a moment he could pretend it was Genesis. For a moment, not more.

Sephiroth smiled thoughtfully, ruefully.

Every day began with the same questions and died with them. What was more important? Greatness or happiness? A country he served or a man he loved?

Therein was no Truth.

Just choice.

* * *

Bestrewn with stars, late night skies found Genesis hiding between two houses of a small village that, as many others like St-Germaine-en-Laye, took shelter at the heavily defended and guarded walls of Paris. The settlement was sleeping, enchanted by predawn quiescence, and finally the redhead moved, slipped around the corner of a barn and through the door carelessly left half-opened.

It was warm inside and the air smelled of hay and milk. Stealing past the rows of cows, the redhead was fortunate to find a single chestnut horse, young and healthy enough to endure a furious galloping.

That morning he awoke with a feeling of anxiety, gnawing at his heart, and knew it had to do with Sephiroth. It was enough to hurry him up to leave the capital.

Having harnessed the animal, Genesis flung himself into the saddle and resolutely, not sparing himself or the steed, headed for the Somme. Raising clouds of dust, he swept by the kingdom of sleep the settlement now was, and chose the wide road, turning north on the first crossing.

He was afraid he was already too late, and Sephiroth could not be helped.

* * *

Despite a slight setback at Blanchetaque, boisterous revelry reigned in the King's marquee at Abberville. The flower of the French knighthood gathered therein, drinking, laughing, chattering idly and generally preoccupied with everything but preparations for the battle.

Altogether, there were seven of them, or thereby, The King himself, surrounded by his brother, Alençon, and the Constable, the Count of Guiennes; on the opposite side of the table sat his stepfather and the blind King of Bohemia with his principle knight, Sir de Moyne. Other faces Sephiroth recalled vaguely or could not recall at all.

Viscount de Bugey sat silently in the furthest, darkest corner of the room, reticent, reserved and cocooned in his own thoughts. Thereagainst in these noisy medleys the silver-haired knight felt like he was an unwanted guest. Outwardly he was a calm indifferent mask, and it was enough.

A map of the surroundings was spread out on the table and a straw effigy of the English king Edward stood resting against the wall of the marquee. Occasionally someone picked up a dagger and threw it into the stooping frame of their rival, peals of laughter or disdainful comments following thereupon.

Sephiroth didn't take part in the general merriness and refulgent vanity. To his weary eyes most of them were jesters. After all, how could one interpret Alençon's boastful replicas about the number of the Englishmen he's slain or the blind man's querulous remarks about how their batallies should be disposed on the battlefield tomorrow. The latter could not even see the map.

Jesters.

In moments like these his ennui for Genesis was the most poignant.

Having become tipsy from the wine they have been drinking all evening or from the seemingly easy victory over Edward at the walls of Paris, the nobles seemed to have lost any fear or prudence.

"I parlay," Alençon averred, bloating with pride, "that ten English yeomen will die by my hand on the morrow."

"Twenty," de Moyne flippantly chimed in.

Sephiroth measured the said man with his eyes, finding it extremely hard to believe those vainglorious words, yet preferring to remain silent while his stepfather condescendingly traversed, "With thy size?" The Count of Nevers could allow himself such thoughtless irony. Now even the King laughed. "In the name of the merciful Lord, Moyne, thou couldst not kill twenty dwarfs."

The principal knight flushed with rage.

"An excellent remark hath thou made, Louis," Alençon didn't fail to thrust in his word, as though failing to notice the knight's ire. De Moyne swiftly threw a dagger at the effigy, having hit its stomach. "Didst thou aim for his heart, Moyne?"

The Constable burst with laughter, to which the blush on the knight's cheeks deepened, blooming as crimson rose.

"Ye shall all see tomorrow," he was seething with anger, yet to others it was just the right entertainment. Alençon disdainfully hemmed.

"If, with all the wine drunk, you shall not oversleep the battle."

John of Bohemia jumped to his feet, frantically turning his head around as though trying to find his principal knight's offenders. His nearly white eyes protruded from his eye sockets, likening him to a scarecrow.

Jesters.

Then the King intervened, obviously having decided to interrupt the humiliation.

"Gallant sires, that is quite enough," Philippe stood up with a magnanimous smile, and the clamour immediately died out. "We still have the issue of battle to decide."

Sephiroth couldn't suppress a bitter smirk; His Majesty made it sound as some secondary issue.

After a brief turmoil silence finally ensued in the marquee and the Constable stepped up to the map. Sephiroth drew forward, intently looked at the drawing. Between Abberville and the village of Crecy, where the English army had settled, stretched the forest of Crecy.

"Our main forces will be coming from Fountaine," the Constable began, "the Genovese crossbowmen are almost in the right position and they will move out first, drawing our enemy's attention, then they will be reinforced by the heavy cavalry. It will be an easy battle, Your Majesty, with our twofold advantage over those yeomen. No commoner will ever defeat the knight. However, the infantry…"

Sephiroth was no longer listening, looking at the map again, at the hills Edward will most likely take his stand at, at the village of Crecy, situated on the untenable plain. The Constable seemed to have forgotten how useless crossbows were against the longbows. The Genoese will be shot down in minutes and then their heavy cavalry will end up trying to cross the plain and climb the hill under devastating fire of the English archers who were renowned for their speed and accuracy.

To him it was an utter disaster. Why none else saw it was a riddle of the Sphinx.

The Constable finished speaking, taking his seat, whereupon the king concluded, "Aside from dividing our troops into batallies, the arrangements satisfy us, sires."

Sephiroth looked at his stepfather, awaiting him to speak up, yet the Count remained silent; then he took the word, tersely explaining the possible flaws or at least trying to. Having barely finished the second thought, he was interrupted by the King.

"Thou dost overvalue those peasants' skills, Sephiroth." Philippe made a casual, mocking remark and waved him aside.

It stung more than he thought the rejection ever would. All eyes riveted on him, as the knight made another, less polite attempt.

"But…"

"And thou darest thy liege doubt," at his second objection Philippe's eyebrows knitted with disappointment, and Sephiroth understood that in this room his words meant nothing, his title was nothing.

For the rest of the war council he could only think that whereas no wise military leader would underestimate the weather, the terrain and the enemies, they were about to make all three mistakes in a single battle.

…When the King dismissed them, Sephiroth overtook his stepfather before the entrance to the latter's marquee.

"I have a request to ask of you, father," he began, getting straight to the point. "You command the largest part of the King's army and with such forces we have the power to turn the outcome of this battle to our favor."

The Count frowned, "You speak as though we have already lost."

"We will if we follow His Majesty's plan." He was speaking hastily, gestures betraying his unusual lack of patience. "If the heavy cavalry attacks Edward's position without…"

He was interrupted, like in the king's marquee, "This is my army and it shall follow my orders and Philippe's."

Sephiroth barely managed to maintain his cold composure. Of all things, he could hardly imagine his stepfather, as cautious man as he was, following Philippe's orders so bluntly and blindly.

"Dost thou understand that the longbows…"

"I do not appreciate being lectured on tactics, Sephiroth," that same dark spark flashed in his stepfather's eyes and he now recognized it, so similar it was to the one in his lover's eyes.

Louis was jealous.

The knight felt as though trapped in the cage. If his stepfather did not listen, they would lose. Kings and pawns, the French court was divided into those, and he belonged with the latter. It didn't wound him as much as rendered him desperate.

"Father, I see flaws in the Constable's explanations. Isn't it reasonable to..."

His persistence only enraged Louis, whose ire flared up as dry crones of trees in the forest fire.

"Do not ask me to betray my liege! You stole my wife from me. I accepted it, for women are whores, eager to pull their skirts up before any philanderer with a pleasant face. Marguerite," he spat out his stepmother's name with disgust, "is no different. Have her if you so wish, yet you shall not have my glory!"

"I am not asking it for myself," Sephiroth objected with indignation, "I am…"

Then, silencing him, pain cut through his lips as his stepfather slapped him across his face, having repeated with malign, even if quieter, notes, "You shall _not_ have my glory."

The viscous blood was slowly dripping from Sephiroth's cut lip and onto his trembling fingers as he wiped the corner of his mouth in an ostentatiously slow, perfected gesture.

What did he deserve such treatment for?

Emerald eyes fluttered open, dilated pupils framed in burning halos of hurt and cold ire. He has never been slapped before as none dared to humiliate him without consequences. His stepfather was one among the few who could, yet he never…

Why today?

Vibrating with anger, his voice faltered, uttering the harshest words he's ever spoken to the Count, "If… when our regiments fall tomorrow, I hope thou wilt rot with them."

However, if Viscount du Bugey knew those were the last words he'd ever say to his stepfather, he would have not uttered them.

* * *

… The cloth, which shaded the entrance to the marquee, was gently quivering in the wind. The candles inside died out, dripping with tenuous trickles of white smoke. It was dark and in that predawn, overwhelming darkness a man, on whose shoulders the fate of his country now rested, stooped over the makeshift fur bed, frightening in his anger, pitiful in his feebleness and broken in his despair. Thin lips, bleeding and burning, listlessly moved, nearly soundless whispers escaping them to be swallowed by avid silence.

_If this cup may not pass away from me…_

The emeralds helplessly sparked as long fingers clenched the furs with force to hold onto _something_, let it be his bed rather than emptiness.

… _except I drink it…_

He was still thinking of himself and not of the thousands and thousands of men who will die for his stepfather's jealousy. Who will die because he was a pawn and the King was blind.

… _except I drink it…_

He would rather suffer himself than know the disaster had happened because he was too weak to change anything. Tomorrow…

… _Thy will…_

The cavalry will be shot down from the longbows and thereupon…

… _Thy will be done…_

His cup shall empty.

Sephiroth collapsed onto the bed in shudders, one name slipping from him unawares in a faint entreaty, "Genesis…"

None came. None answered.

Abandoned by everyone, in this fight he was once again alone.

Lying on the scattered silver, livid as a dead man, Sephiroth suddenly wished he was blind or mad or both. He lacked strength to withstand against everyone, he lacked cruelty to uselessly sacrifice the Frenchmen to human Arrogance and Foolishness instead of at least Reason, he lacked hope anyone will deliver him from this lot.

_If this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, Thy will be done…_

Was he praying like Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, words falling on his Father's deaf ears?

Sephiroth could have absconded, leaving his army, his stepmother and his foolishly blind stepfather behind, begun his life anew, raised it from ashes of dying love for Genesis and, having learned form his previous mistakes, devoted it to something different.

It was so human. It was so impossible.

Sephiroth knew that he would not flee.

He will drink his bitter cup to the lees.


	20. Chapter XIX: Crown and thorns

_A/N:_ Battle theme song – Sephiroth's theme, one-winged angel.

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Genoese crossbowmen – _those were mercenaries hired by the French King. I don't remember if I mentioned it before, but they came from Genoa (or Genova, as at times I might spell Genovese crossbowmen), a city in Italy.

* * *

_**Chapter XIX.**_

_**Crown and thorns.**_

"_And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!" (Matthew, 27:29, KJV). _

They were arguing about something insignificant, with little meaning to both of them and still, however casual Sephiroth looked, he was a tad smug, more dignity than arrogance in his faint smile and restrained gestures, yet all these little details were now screaming upon Genesis from his shattered memory.

They were never equal neither in the eyes of the world, nor in the eyes of the knight.

Genesis reposed himself on the ground, having rested against the warm croup of his horse so that he could face the blinking fires of the French encampment illumining the night with wan crimson sheens. Sephiroth was close; all he had to do was rise, head to one of the marquees with his distinctive coat of arms on it and ask his lover's forgiveness.

He was not ready. Moment after moment passed in silence and Genesis was pointlessly staring into the night, vacillating, worried.

Sentries moved in darkness, from time to time calling to one another. The redhead counted them all, even remembered their names, yet confidence did not hurry to supplant diffidence.

He was not ready because the doubts that Sephiroth would never forgive him were stronger than even the pain he felt.

* * *

It was dawning slowly, as though sun was reluctant to awake out of sleep and look down upon the Earth through the clouded skies. The French encampment was waking with even more reluctance, faint clangs of steel and sleepy voices belatedly filling predawn stillness. The French didn't look as about to go into battle, but in their sloth and carelessness rather like lazy nobles coming around after a night long wassail.

There was only one man, who knew what their arrogance was fraught with.

Sephiroth rose from the ground he's been kneeling on in agonizing contemplation rather than prayer, let his silken silver locks slip through trembling fingers and only then straightened with outward unearthly calmness. During the sleepless night the knight has nearly accepted his fate, having caged himself in stone and ice, mercilessly tearing all those undesired 'what if' and 'if only' from his heart. To him it seemed like he died and wished it would stay that way, so that if the time came he would slip into nothingness easily and without struggle.

It was easier said than done.

His body and spirit fought whereat reason has already yielded.

His gait staggering, the viscount took several aimless steps towards the quivering cloth that still separated his world from the outside, then realized that he hasn't been dressed.

Alber obediently responded to his call, appearing horrified by his condition, "Messire, thou art pale. Should I call someone…"

A curt, tired gesture interrupted the youth's noble attempts to remind him about Genesis, who at the moment was unbearable to think of. "No, Alber, I shall be all right."

The youth looked at him with a pleading glint in hazel eyes, begging him to say something, to bare his soul and Sephiroth suppressed a sudden urge to laugh bitterly, without mirth. How lucky those blind and young were, who needn't see what he saw and who weren't burdened with knowledge and truth.

Truth, a smooth wooden sliver in the nimble fingers, easily played with, inasmuch as it was held by a man used to manipulate others who, however, heretofore was a man he loved and respected for different reasons.

The knight's thoughts returned to his redheaded lover, his desires notwithstanding.

His squire understood everything without words, having picked up a gambeson and thrown it over his shoulders, a heavy polished breastplate following. The ritual reminded the viscount of the solemn robing of the dead king in velvet and silk before encasing him in marble in the famous royal burial vault at the Abbey of Saint-Denis in the suburb of Paris.

Lacing the steel leg shields, his loyal squire essayed again, "How can I be of any help, messire?"

Poor youth, he did not understand that he was of little use where even the knight himself failed, with Genesis, with his stepfather, with the King, at long last; and yet Sephiroth appreciated his genuine efforts. Among the intrigues and games, it felt like stumbling across something pure, as he was so tired of fallacy, with usury being tatted around him like cobwebs.

After the youth has finished panoplying him, Sephiroth straightened in the most august manner and softly whispered, "You may go." He needed some more time alone, one on one with himself, before having to leave the marquee.

"But, messire…"

"Leave me, Alber," he repeated in a more austere voice, already turning away from the dark-haired youth, dismissing him with just a fleeting glance of hollow emerald eyes.

The cloth shielding the entrance gently flapped, signifying that his squire obeyed his orders and finally left.

Why didn't he follow, having lingered in the seemingly safe shelter and a now shattered shrine to his only love? What did he expect, a miraculously forgiving Genesis entering his marquee or at least his stepfather telling him he'll comply with the simple request? Everything was just an illusory hope, of the kind that obstinately shoots through deepest snowdrifts of reason and dies last.

He wasn't able to harbour those hopes for too long.

Having resolutely picked up his helmet, Sephiroth finally slid it over his silver hair, carefully tucking loose tresses into the breastplate, for although obviously being his pride, it was also a hindrance on the battlefield, whereat between life and death only a couple of precious moments wedged.

The flap quivered, letting him through.

_If this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, __Thy will be done…_

Whose will, besides his own? There was no one else's.

As Sephiroth left his marquee, the sounds and colors of the world swept over him, deafening, blinding. Fully awake now, the encampment was seething with life and excitement, squires, dashing between their master's marquees, knights, cheerfully talking to each other, infantrymen, grinding their axes and short swords, all blending into unwonted after the long silent night ebullience.

The jet-black stallion under the sparkling white horse cloth looked at him with almost human compassion as Alber helped him mount and, heels firmly nestled in stirrups, Sephiroth touched the rein. Below, at the bottom of the hill, where his marquee was opened up, the batallies were gathering to continue their advance towards Crecy.

The welkin above was of pure cerulean shades, so pristine it simply could not be an augury of slaughter.

* * *

English King Edward III moved his troops out of the village to meet the French on the hilly plain, clutched between the river Maine and numerous settlements from the sides and forest of Crecy from behind. Having settled on the hill, he disposed his detachments in such a way that each of his flanks was protected by longbowmen, while the centre consisted of infantry and dismounted cavalry only. Edward had prepared himself beforehand and was now patiently waiting for his French rival.

The first French detachments came in sight past midday in separate, small units and began gathering into three major batallies as was arranged previously. The Genovese crossbowmen lined up in front, their ranks swelling as John of Bohemia arrived with his knights; the flower of the French cavalry followed behind, led by the impetuous Earl de Alençon with the King himself at the head of the third batallie. The infantry, or whatever parts had arrived on time, was stationed on both wings, as the rest were slowly coming along the road from Fontaine.

Sephiroth and his vassals were trapped in the middle of the splendid medley of bannerets and less noble knights with luxurious plumes on their helmets. Most steeds' croups were adorned with horse cloths usually of the most extravagant variety of blue and yellow colors and French Lilies.

The variegated banners were proudly flying over their heads, fluttering in the chilly wind, which together with the clouds above foreshadowed a drizzle.

Sephiroth straightened in the saddle to see through the numerous backs, when the first clear droplets fell on his armor. Viscount du Bugey looked up, having caught a globule of water with the slit in his helmet, blinking. It would be a long day, he thought watching Philippe, Constable and Alençon lively conversing about something, and suddenly the King angrily and loudly exclaimed, drowning even the clamor of clanging steel and neighing horses, "Order the Genoese forward and begin the battle, in the name of God and Saint Denis!" Could it be that something went finally wrong with this disastrous plan?

An unmounted man to his left tried to make a weak protest, "Your Majesty, my crossbowmen are tired. We have just marched six leagues, fully armed and armored, and the rain…"

Hearing this, the Earl of Alençon, disdainfully scoffed, "This is what one gets by employing such scoundrels, who fail when there is any need for them."

The dim spark of hope died as quickly as it flared moments before. The silver-haired knight turned around, searching for his stepfather only to catch sight of the lean and tiny frame of the blind John of Bohemia.

The calamity was imminent, brought upon the unsuspecting Frenchmen with such a rare unanimity among the most powerful nobles any monarch could envy.

In the meantime the Genovese launched a series of volleys meant to frighten the enemy, by the order of Philippe VI using the instruments and bawling at the top of their voices, however, the Englishmen loomed far ahead as silently as before. It made no nevermind to them even if the Genovese removed their pants and showed their naked cheeks as a sign of utter disdain. They waited, patient and deadly, as Sephiroth would have were he a French King. The yells uttered by thousands of throats only scared off the swarm of black crows that rose into the air with shrill cawing, their wings eclipsing the sun for a moment, as though foreboding a murderous battle.

He never believed in auguries. He believed in what he was seeing.

To the merry sounds of bugles the crossbowmen slowly advanced forward, raising their weapons. It looked like a dark river bursting its banks and overflowing the green plain, unstoppable unless the Englishmen possessed the powers to turn the waters backwards.

They did. Sephiroth couldn't see the bowmen, yet the swarms of arrows, bending in the graceful, deadly arch across the clouded cerulean welkin, were easy to behold. They shot upwards and fell abundantly, like snow or harmless summer rain. The Genoese, armored lightly and lacking their pavises, began to die. The arrows pierced their armor, heads, chests and hands, confusing their front rows and to the sounds of desperate yells the crossbowmen's attack gushed in their own blood.

The rain droplets were frequently beating against his armor, streaming down the steel breastplate like tears.

The dark river drew back, waves foaming with vermilion froth, chaotic, quivering waves. The Genovese crossbowmen began falling back, however, in more or less perfect order and Sephiroth could tell they had a talented commander, a rare case among the jesters. The archers were still shooting, the arrows falling, reaping lavish harvest of blood and pain.

Sephiroth wearily closed his eyes, absently clenching the handle of his bastard sword. He has foreseen it, yet it did no good to them, for he lacked power to prevent the calamity from happening. If only he were the French King…

The thought burnt as thousands of white-hot needles. If only he had the crown, which would have given him the role of the God's vicar, the battle would have ended differently; he, after all, had the right for that crown, even if questionable.

Viscount du Bugey opened his eyes to watch the confused Genovese retreat, never having reached the English lines for a clear shot from the crossbows. They were professional mercenaries, thus one could hardly expect patriotic deeds from them.

To his right Alber began praying quietly.

The rows of knights erupted with shouts, the loudest among them being the King's, "Kill me those scoundrels for they stop up our road and without any reason at that!"

The front line, painted in variegated colors and mailed in steel, quivered, the King of Bohemia responding to the Philippe's order by charging towards the enemy. The old man was blind, so to take his pitiful part in battle he asked his principal knights to tie their horses together with reins and audaciously rushed into hell. The ensigns shot up, carried by numerous standard-bearers, and led by those proud in their blindness the heavy cavalry charged towards the runaway mercenaries, never giving them the chance to finish the much needed withdrawal and possible recovery hereafter.

He would have looked away but the sight, macabre in its cruelty and foolishness, had his eyes riveted on it, while the blind king of Bohemia continued his ruinous charge through the ranks of the retreating Genovese, slaying the latter. Predictably, the armored cavalry rushed towards the Englishmen only to fall fusilladed from the longbows.

It was quite pusillanimous of him to wish for everything to come to an end quickly, however, Sephiroth knew that his agony would be long and poignant.

* * *

"The battle began! The battle began!" A small boy was running though the lifeless, desolated village of Estrees, whose inhabitants, unwilling to share the common fate of peasants extemporaneously caught in the war, hid in their homes or nearby forest. Genesis could tell as much by the loud sounds, being wafted to his ears from the general direction of the river Mave.

"The battle began!"

The loud yell was still ringing in his ears, as the redhead halted his horse on the narrow pathway by the wattled fence, rising in the stirrups to take a better look at the battlefield.

Did it mean he was too late?

In the mayhem he could barely discern what was going on, aside from clearly seeing the French cavalry's attack die out. One small detachment of what seemed to be ten horses tied together drew away, yard by yard covering the green meadow that separated them from the quiescent English infantry. Tearing uphill, the horsemen were so carried away that none of them had time to recover until all ten of them were slain one by one.

Genesis could not know that at that moment the blind king of Bohemia breathed his last.

If only the redhead possessed wings… Sephiroth was there, below, ready to intrepidly charge into chaos that voraciously awaited to swallow him. Jealousy, considerations and umbrages at his lover, all lost any meaning in sudden understanding that this battle could claim Sephiroth's life. Mercilessly biting his lush lips and having clenched the bit of his horse that impatiently tittupped in circles, Genesis watched as the rest of the heavy cavalry, theretofore motionless, returned to life.

He could have sworn he saw a glimpse of silver hair in the sea of human bodies and fluttering cloaks.

He knew he was wrong.

* * *

The picture on the battlefield was like one from the worst nightmare the viscount could have imagined.

The King's of Bohemia breakthrough got bogged down in the Englishmen's advance, as yeomen poured down from the Edward's encampment on the hill. Many knights were still alive, but the arrows killed their horses. Most of them were unable to rise without their squire's help and easily fell prey to the agile English infantry.

Seeing the slaughter, the Earl de Alençon immediately ordered an advance simultaneously with his stepfather. Both flanks and the center of the French army drew forward, intending to bypass the enemies, surround them and crush by numbers and skill.

Sephiroth resolutely clenched the bit, and the raven-black steed under the white horse cloth set out following the rows of the knights in front of him. The ensigns shot up and somewhere behind bugles played another senseless melody, more series of shrill sounds than music, meant to boost their spirits.

Slender hope he would be able to turn the outcome of the battle in their favour still gleamed in the knight's heart. If, or rather, when mayhem ensued, the nobles would follow anyone strong and bold enough to take leadership.

Meanwhile on the battlefield, the yeomen started a retreat, hiding behind the protection of their archers.

Sephiroth straightened in the saddle, having unsheathed the flamboyant sword as the cavalry assumed the offensive and switched the trot over to steady gallop. The mighty battle horses snorted, the ground shook underneath thousands of hooves, when the knights spurted towards the English encampment, raising and scattering dirt and grass, multi-coloured cloaks and banners fluttering in the wind. They reached the bodies of the Genovese crossbowmen, whereupon clouds of arrows marred the halcyon sunset-tinged azure.

Sephiroth's ambler flattened out in flight, having jumped over the heap of corpses, when the wasps of the arrowheads stung their ranks. Horses neighed, prancing, the knights yelled from pain and frustration and fell, yelled and fell, constantly.

In front of him one of the steed's legs gave away and a baron tumbled down to the ground with an arrow in his arm; having no time to look back, the silver-haired viscount didn't see whether he rose afterwards.

Faster, Sephiroth almost screamed at himself, they had to move faster.

However, the steel crescent swept by the scattered bodies of the Genovese, of the King's of Bohemia retinue and, finally, for the first time that day reached the foot of the hill, whereupon the Englishmen established themselves firmly.

The glistening scythe began its deadly ascend, horses strained their last strength, while the archers were shooting and shooting with remarkable speed and accuracy, and each arrow found a target.

The ground shuddered. The air was torn by a cacophony of incoherent sounds.

It seemed in an indiscernible instant the horizon would prance.

* * *

Marguerite was kneeling on the prayer rug in the narrow beam of light that penetrated the small chapel through the window. Somehow she was feeling her stepson was battling death right at that very moment.

Wringing her slender hands, Marguerite didn't know what else to ask of God she hadn't otherwise asked. The Creator had heard all her prayers, monster's prayers, and never answered a single one.

Words freezing on her lips as thick crust of ice, she straightened, pressed herself to the cold chapel wall, all her silent desire to be there, with her stepson expressed on her youthful face.

She could not say anything, just stand and blindly watch the greyish stones her pale trembling hands were standing out against.

"Oh, God, our Heavenly Father, bring Sephiroth safely home. Take anything from me, just don't let him die. Anything…"

Those were just thoughts whirling in her head in a maelstrom among hollow nothingness and then…

Then there were feathers, huge, jet-black, blazed up with light, slowly circling their way to the floor and she froze in that waterfall, almost feeling the downy touch, almost hearing the flap of an enormous single wing.

Marguerite blinked and, appalled, swiftly looked over her shoulder.

They were no more.

* * *

Sephiroth could no longer see his stepfather's ensign proudly flying in the wind. Confused, the ranks of their heavy cavalry scattered on and around the hill, losing any signs of order and fighting for dear life. Numerous copses and croups have already lavishly dotted the green meadow and slopes. The battle was hopelessly lost. He did everything he could and failed.

It was time to go.

When Sephiroth reached the hill an arrow pierced his forearm and he swiftly broke it off, oblivious of the pain, however, other than this minor scratch, he remained intact and mounted. He could consider himself very lucky.

Having blindly waved away with his sword, the viscount beheaded an infantryman and looked around for Alber but couldn't see his squire. The youth was lost at the beginning of battle and, whereas he was reluctant to leave without him, the latter left the knight no choice.

Somewhere to his left Alençon's standard-bearer began tumbling down with an arrow in his chest and, having urged the weary steed towards him, Sephiroth contrived to catch up the banner before it fell to the ground. Waving it twice and then dropping, the silver-haired knight rose in his stirrups and shouted "Fall back!", his voice muffled by the helmet. Having torn it away and discarded, Sephiroth yelled again to the sounds of bugles playing the resounding retreating march. At least he'll save someone.

The cavalry obeyed; bloodied knights began gathering around him, forming his favorite wedge. Having immediately passed the banner to someone's squire, Sephiroth unsheathed his sword and thrust it upwards as a sign to begin the attack at the enemies looming far ahead. His steed pranced and a speck of fading sunlight flared up on the tip, visible for many who were on that hill.

Once the formation resembled something ordered enough, Viscount du Bugey ordered an advance through chaotic medley of steel clangs and anguished moans.

"Sephiroth!"

The desperate yell, having drowned even the loudest clangs, made him freeze in his pace.

The viscount turned around.

Outnumbered, with the Count of Flanders in his arms the Earl de Alençon defended himself against the Englishmen and as emerald eyes fell on him, the King's brother staggered in the saddle and slowly slid to the ground, immediately pierced by short swords. He tried to rise, yet, surrounded and pinned to the ground, was quickly disarmed and killed by a precise thrust that penetrated even the plate of his expensive armor.

Thus, even Alençon paid the price for his arrogance.

His stepfather's body with a long arrow protruding from his back motionlessly lay prone therebeside.

All their arguments notwithstanding, Sephiroth could not leave the Count to die or at least without first being certain he was already dead. Having ordered everyone else to continue retreating, the silver-haired viscount urged his horse towards the new enemies, diverting their attention from his stepfather.

The archer didn't have time to comprehend where death came from, as the flamboyant curve fell askance across his back, scorching, draining life and blood. Sephiroth slightly bent in the saddle, falling upon the horsemen and sweeping by, his movements so quick, precise and fluid that it seemed he had swung his arm and then, long moments afterwards, the head of the Englishman got detached from the body on its own accord. The last knight deflected his blow with a shield, horses began to whirl around each other in a bewitching dance as both of them were desperately dodging the other's thrusts. Sephiroth's jet-black steed was faster, letting the viscount skirt his opponent from behind and deliver a devastating blow, breaking through the layers of the knight's armor. The latter froze in the saddle for a moment, unnaturally straight like a pillar, and crashed down with a dull thud, no words or moans passing his lips.

The viscount swiftly alighted and kneeled by his stepfather's body in time to hear the Count's fading whisper. The latter's eyes were opened, but lackluster, death peering at him through dark depths with mocking curiosity.

"Forgive me, Sephiroth…" Wheezing, Louis tried to show him something, pointing to his back, yet all Sephiroth could make out was his last, faint, "Marguerite…"

It was hard to fully comprehend his stepfather had just died, although the Count's body went limp and lifeless in his arms, his head flaccidly dangling sideways as Sephiroth turned him over to feel the heartbeat. His thoughts preoccupied with battle, the viscount hastily closed Louis' eyes, trying to memorize the place so that when the battle was over he could return and bury him with proper honors.

Suddenly arrows flew out of the dimming sunlight, two piercing his steed's croup, which loudly screamed as a human being and dashed away, and the last one lashing his shoulder with a scourge of heat and pain. Sephiroth straightened, having picked his sword and hidden behind the shield, to meet the new rivals armed and ready. The wound was still minor, hardly any hindrance to his deadly movements and speed.

Three infantrymen attacked him from both sides; the first one fell with a hewn chest, the last two attempted to use those fickle moments he was freeing his flamboyant sword from the flesh to their advantage, however, their thrusts harmlessly slipped against his breastplate, the delay turning deadly as the bastard sword flew up and fell twice, crushing their armor and making them choke with their own screams.

The same sad fate overtook a lone horseman, who tried to corner him to the tree of the nearby forest. Having lopped the tip of his lance off, Sephiroth turned swiftly, squatting to undercut the steed's legs. When the knight fell, he thrust the flamboyant part of the sword into his stomach without further ado. The gloved fingers helplessly clawed the steel, as leaving a carmine trail behind, Sephiroth abruptly pulled his weapon out of the mortal wound.

Viscount du Bugey looked round. In the narrow shape of his eyes emerald flames were raging.

The second arrow pierced him in the side, scorching with another wave of pain and stealing his breath. Moaning, the knight fell to one knee, however, straightening as another horseman dashed out of nowhere with a spear pointed to him. The tip clashed with his shield, a dull sound grating on his ears and deafening him for an instant. Underneath his armor a hot sticky streamlet meandered along his back and thighs, no pain following, just a blur in his eyes and a sudden weakness in his arms. The rider fell upon him anew, swinging his sword; Sephiroth ducked and, taking a step aside, riposted, knocking the weapon out of the knight's hand. The horseman swore in English, baring a small axe and delivering a blow when the silver-haired knight tottered. Another white-hot lash and he could see stars. His gait no longer light, dancing, bloodied silver adhered to his forehead and breathing heavily, Sephiroth stabbed the opponent in the leg and once again, having discarded the suddenly too heavy shield, in his thigh.

Blood began slowly oozing from the corner of his mouth when the axe wounded his back, his body turning numb and unruly. He will take down this knight, but the next one could be his death.

The Englishman's blows were sluggish now, and having dived under his arm, Sephiroth finally managed to get at his chest and step back in time, whenas the knight collapsed as though dead.

Viscount du Bugey could barely breathe now, each gasp followed by agonizing pain and swaying of the world around him. Tottering, he made a couple of steps towards the line of forest when the last arrow flew out of the vesper mist, driving its steel sting into his thigh.

Having uttered a curt shriek, Sephiroth fell to his knees. His eyelids were beginning to droop, yet with some inhuman effort he ordered himself to straighten, leaning against the handle of his bastard sword with all his weight.

The desired freedom was so close.

The steel tower staggered, and, left arm reaching out for the dark-green trees, slowly sank to the ground anew. Resting against his palms, silver veiling his face, Sephiroth tried to crawl among the bodies and crimson pools, however vain his movements were, but the wounds were debilitating, soon having drained him of last strength.

Its smell was everywhere, obscuring his thoughts, filling him with nauseating sensation of the imminent nigh.

Blood. Death.

Sephiroth lifted his head only when fancied he saw a redheaded man leaning over to him, however, it must have been the delusion for when he whispered, "Genesis," for when he reached out for his lover, his slender silhouette vanished into thin air, mercilessly gibing at him.

_Genesis…_

Shuddering, the silver-haired viscount finally froze, quiescent and motionless, not that far from where his stepfather had fallen, so close to freedom as he has never ever been in his entire life.

Emerald eyes died down, and somewhere on the other side of the Earth, having flashed dazzlingly for the last time, faded the light of the morning star.

* * *

Alber knew there was no forgiveness or acquittal for him. He betrayed his master, having left him alone on the battlefield, because when he came face to face with the war, he succumbed to cowardice. He chose his life over honor. He chose himself over Sephiroth.

He failed.

He should have died.

When they charged the enemy, when the most valiant knights around him began to fall, their horses and bodies pierced by numerous English arrows, he betrayed cowardice and fled through the ranks of his fellow Frenchmen, trying to save his pitiful life. Trembling from fright and choking with tears of anxiety and bitter sense of disgrace, Alber lay on the ground in the coppice nearby, watching his army thaw as snow in the rays of spring sun, watching his master rally the last survived defenders around him and, after failing to break through the enemy's lines, finally fall.

His heart as though pierced by dozens of burning arrows, Alber witnessed Sephiroth being fusilladed from the longbows from afar, as if he was a noble animal, chased by merciless, flushed with excitation and the taste of blood hunters.

Where was valour, he kept asking, barely restraining himself from screaming. Where was the knight's honour?! Dignity?! How could the Englishmen, unable to defeat his liege in single combat, debase themselves by meanness? It was insane and unimaginable for his childish eyes.

Quiescent, Alber watched him fall and still could not overcome his stunning fright to make a single attempt to save him. He should have died there, with Sephiroth.

He survived.

His disgrace was endless.

Then the vesper wings fell, shrouding the bloodied field with thousands of bodies sprawled on the ground as broken poppies and the victors began searching for the mortally wounded survivors to slit their throats or bash their heads. As though chained to the barren ground, Alber beheld a dark frame moving among the fallen French knights, occasionally bending down and, as though caressing, passing his hand over them. When the warrior neared the hill whereat Sephiroth fell, the youth was still watching with widened, fear filled hazel eyes. When the crude hand reached out to raise his master's chin a little to slip the dagger in-between layers of armor, he was still watching. When Sephiroth's emerald eyes slowly opened, sparkling as gems, as his hand blindly and helplessly groped for the bastard sword, he was still watching. When, enervated by the futile effort, Viscount du Bugey threw his head back, resigning to his fate, and the silver stripe of the misericord neared his alabaster neck, he jumped.

It felt as though the ground pushed him forward with some unearthly strength and innate courage put a small dagger in his hand, which shot up and pierced the Englishman's back through the chain mail.

He could have never imagined himself hitting anyone from behind, for it was disparaging, however, the war, unlike jousts, knew no honor.

Enraged by the cut not deep enough to stop him, the knight slapped the youth across his face with the glove, having sent him to the ground. Poignant pain in his ribs followed, as the steel boot hit him in the chest once, twice, and his mouth filled with salty blood.

"Brat!" The knight spat out with enough disdain to make him blush in other circumstances. Therein, however, it only angered, blinded, wiped all coherent thoughts from Alber's mind besides one.

The man in front of him had to die.

Having coiled as a snake, nimble and fast, the youth slipped under the knight's rising hand and thrust his chest. The bearded man staggered, lost balance, falling to the ground to find Alber on top of him the next instant. With his face distorted, the unlucky squire plunged his dagger deep into the arm, with which the knight tried to protect his face, then delivered another lightning stroke to the man's side. The Englishman screamed as blood lavishly sprinkled from his wounds, attempted to throw the youth off his chest, however, in vain. Alber was unstoppable.

Alber was no longer a human being. He was a beast.

Panting and wheezing, he raised his arm and hit again, this time aiming for the face and succeeding as the blade slipped into the eye socket, spilling carmine droplets. The man was no longer trying to fend him off but rather defend himself from the storm of blows hailing down upon his body. Too late. Blood was pounding in Alber's ears, drowning the knight's agonizing bawls, as his hand was rising and falling, striking, thrusting the dagger into shuddering flesh until the bloodied eyeless heap underneath him no longer resembled a human body.

Thereupon the squire let go of the blade and collapsed onto the ground, slowly coming to his senses as unknown ire abated, leaving him, a trembling pitiful youth anew, alone.

Sephiroth was no longer conscious, his chiselled featured lurid, his breath faint on the steel glove Alber brought to his thin lips.

He was dying.

The ground gave a lurch and his own pain from the likely broken ribs made itself felt. The youth sobbed, wiping his face with a bloodied hand.

"Messire…" he breathlessly called out. "Messire Sephiroth."

There was no answer.

Tears welled up in hazel eyes. Frantically twisting his head round to notice only corpses and finally the disfigured body to his right, Alber reached out for his master and fell, having failed. Then, dragging his feet on the ground and moaning each time stabbing pain flared in his chest, the youth crept forward until his hand found his master's steel leg shield. He could no longer see clearly, as the world around him blurred, disappearing in the flow of silent tears.

Poppies and wasteland were in his dream, and his dream came true. The squire's lips moved.

"I won't leave you any more, messire Sephiroth…" Strange blissful warmth was spreading in his body, swallowing pain, shame, despair, and the laughing grey welkin above began to darken. "I won't… ever… I promise…"

With the last whisper passing his lips Alber froze, having rested his face on the cold bloodied breastplate and cradling a marble hand in his palms in a vain attempt to warm it.

That was how Genesis found them.

* * *

END OF PART I


	21. Chapter XX: Life and death

**_A/N: _**The song Alber sings is borrowed form the _Elder Edda_, The Lay of Atli.

* * *

PART II: FALL OF SAMAEL

_**Chapter XX.**_

**_Life and death._**

"_If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to __death__; their blood shall be upon them." (__Leviticus 20:13__, KJV)._

The sight before Genesis' eyes was unlike anything he has ever seen in his life, even his mother's auto-da-fe faded in comparison to what he had witnessed on the battlefield that day. Death was everywhere, hiding in the gullies, behind hills and in the river's waters; it gleamed in the crimson pools of blood on the damp crumpled grass, it serpentined between dead bodies that lay separate or clutching each other, beheaded or curled into a ball, and looked at him from lacklustre eyes dark on morbid whiteness. He had to step carefully, avoiding the scattered limbs, jumping over the dark humps and raising swarms of flies as he went further and further, looking for the man he loved, dead or alive, his hopes dwindling together with rays of the setting sun.

When the King's ensign fell, the redhead understood that the battle was lost, yet in the small detachments that managed to break through the enemy's formations he didn't notice sparks of splendid silver hair or his lover's memorable coat of arms, which meant that Sephiroth didn't leave the carnage. Faithful to some foolish ideals of his, the knight stayed until the bitter end.

The night air was still, unnaturally so, and in deathly quiescence the plaintive sounds of threnody were floating as thinnest tracery of gossamer, adhering to his mind and heart, stealing last vivid scintilla of inner fires. Dressed in long dark robes girls and women from the nearby villages came with candles to wail for the fallen and in his shattered imagination they were like shadows of doomed spirits, leading the dead across the grotto of Gnipahellir, guarded by Garmr, into the morose realm of Hel. The little scarlet tongues quivered, moving around him in intricate patterns as alluring will-o'-the-wisps, and he could hear the voices anew, dolorously pleading or threatening, triumphant or choking, voices that rang in his mind only.

Truth could not help.

Soon Genesis got lost. The solemn threnody was churning him up, echoing in his heart as even knells, each one a sentence and each one a desperate cry. If he lost Sephiroth, at least the redhead wanted to find his body so that his lover's broken beauty would not fall prey to the barbarians and he, having said his farewells, could continue bathing in his pointless, covetous hatred. Sephiroth told him something important, something Genesis should have listened to and cherished, yet instead he threw it away in a fit of jealousy so petty now he would have laughed at it if only he didn't want to weep.

He was left with dead dreams, with a smack of sandalwood oil on his lips and a threnody in his soul.

It was by some miraculous concurrence of circumstances, a hand of God anyone more gullible than him would say, that Genesis finally found them. First he noticed Alber dressed in his lover's colors and only thereupon caught the otherworldly glimpse of silver in a scarlet flare of the floating candle. Covered in blood, the youth looked frightening, yet otherwise barely harmed, with only a bruise on his face and a broken lip. Having desperately clutched his soaked clothing, the redhead vehemently shook Alber who dangled in his arms as a rag puppet.

"What happened here?"

The question was a pointless one to ask.

Indifferent and torpid, as though bereaved of all life, the youth eyed him slowly, and thereafter paid the monk no heed, "I betrayed him. Ask him, maybe, he will still answer."

With ire Genesis pushed Alber aside and he fell on the ground thereabout, having made no attempt to rise or censure him for the harsh treatment. It was so easy for the youth to give up, yet could Genesis allow himself the same weakness?

The next moment he was on his knees, hands lifting the veil of silver from his lover's face - the hair, always so light, was damp and heavy. What was he expecting to see? He still shuddered, as his eyes rested on the pale face, adorned with lifeless curve of thin lips. From the acrid smell of dead bodies Genesis' head reeled and then there were accursed flies.

"Sephiroth." And then louder, wedging off the unyielding silence, "Sephiroth!"

A placid expression frozen on his features, his lover's lurid face was mocking him, as though asking whether the redhead was satisfied now, when Sephiroth was gone forevermore without ever hearing him saying that simple, however, invaluable, 'I loved you.'

Was he satisfied now?

Suddenly Genesis wanted to scream.

"Maybe, he has already died." Alber whispered nearly soundlessly, but Genesis heard his words, for the dirge faded again, "I tried to save him. I couldn't. It is my fault."

Genesis barely restrained himself from hitting the whining youth; with him present he couldn't even say anything aloud, for then… then…

Was anything important now?

The trembling finger gently contoured the thin line of his lover's lips, so soft, despite being cold, as, leaning forward, Genesis frantically whispered into his ear, putting his whole soul into fervent, haste, "In the name of God, Sephiroth, if you still hear me, please…"

_In God's name_… It was a laughable request. God was a manmade creation for the occasions like this, when pain became so unbearable that a heart could burst into liquid flames. His breath became a series of sharp sobs.

"If you can hear me… please…"Sephiroth didn't stir. His dead lover would look gorgeous on scarlet velvet, so regally pale and perfect, like he has rarely been even in life. Even like this. Perfect. Perfectly shattered. Something hot flowed down his cheeks, scorching his eyes as about to burn out empty hollows. "I just wanted to say…" It was pathetic to confess his feelings like that, really. Foolish. The last words were a clot in his throat. "My beloved, I just wanted…" And then he froze, as though icebound.

Genesis didn't expect miracles, but when he heard a faint half-sigh, half-moan escaping Sephiroth's lips, the redhead was nearly ready to believe in any god.

…In the morning after the disastrous battle a cart, harnessed to the pair of meek, obedient mules, was despondently crawling along the wide road and creaking when its huge wheels got into pits and bumps. Its bottom was covered in luxurious black velvet, against which the lurid, sharp-visaged face of a middle-aged man stood out. The cart wobbled, and then the body limply shook, no longer possessing the vigour and the willpower of the living man. A hole in the dark cotardie gaped in his back, barely visible, however, enough to bereave a strong person of life.

The cart was surrounded by a solemnly silent retinue and from time to time, when it crept through another village, peasants took part in the funeral procession until their homes passed from the view.

Louis I, the hereditary Count of Nevers and Flanders, was coming back home.

Ten leagues away another, smaller cart slowly moved in the opposite direction of the Chateau de Thil. Thereupon lay a younger man, equally livid, yet still alive, even if all signs of it were faint wheezing breaths, passing his thin lips with much ado. Three broken arrows protruded from his body and carmine blood was slowly dripping onto his waist-length hair, shrouding his slender frame as a silver mantle. The man was beautiful, like angels were beautiful, exalted or fallen, all the same. On the cracked wooden side sat a redheaded man, whose dull sky-blue eyes were riveted on the silver-haired frame below; he moved rarely, only if absolutely necessary. A third younger lad trudged on a grey donkey, all he could find in the deserted village, and every moment he swayed in the saddle as though about to tumble.

Sephiroth Mensil, Viscount du Bugey, was fighting for his life.

* * *

The desolated hut reminded Genesis of the one, whereat they used to love each other lavishly and carelessly, rarely thinking that one day it all could be taken from them, their will and desire notwithstanding. The only difference he could notice was the absence of a table; instead of it, there was a second bed and a straw mattress by its side. It seemed as though someone had prepared the room for their arrival.

Alber was pale and silent when they moved Sephiroth from the cart to one of the beds and disappeared immediately after Genesis had sent him for supplies to the nearby city or castle he could find. Besides, he wanted to be alone with his lover for the first time in weeks and not just for the reason he missed the knight.

Sephiroth's face was placid, as if he was just sleeping, silver crescents of his lashes trembling ever so slightly. The fever spared him for now; however, Genesis knew that not for long. Such blood loss was always accompanied by delirium. Having slipped by his side, the redhead stole a precious moment to contemplate.

Genesis liked looking at his lover in his sleep, for in deep slumber only Sephiroth was truly himself, wearing no cold masks and bearing none of his superiority, both by birth right and by his nature. It did look like he was sleeping, so deeply shrunk in his shell it will take time and effort to wake him up.

He had to wake up. There was no other option.

Fingers ghosting over the marble cheek, breath scattering short weightless tresses over his lover's forehead, Genesis leaned forward, found his lover's lower lip by touch, gently squeezed in-between.

"Forgive me, I was a fool, Sephiroth…" The redhead nuzzled closer, having finally uttered what he should have a long time ago, yet found strength to do so only when his lover could not hear him. A broken arrow scratched his palm. Sephiroth must be hurting, hurting so much, and yet all he heard was a faint steady breath. Hurting without feeling. Was it how he always dealt with any kind of pain, shutting it in himself, caging, defeating? "Forgive me…"

Lips were joining with lips, coldness waking fire, ice melting on his tongue, slowly, as oversweetened pleasure seeped through his mouth with the softness of flesh. Genesis closed his eyes, forgetting about everything aside from Sephiroth's mouth flowing together with his, much like am abundant river generously gifting him with soothing waters.

He hasn't felt it for so long. He desired it so much. A faint, pleading moan broke overwhelming quiescence. His? Sephiroth's?

He shouldn't have touched his lover. After so many days of separation it felt as besotting venom gushing into his veins, blood flushing his abdomen even as he was kissing his lover's unresponsive lips. It was too much and Genesis realized too late that his hand has already slipped underneath the bloodied flaxen shirt and was tenderly stroking his lover's smooth skin.

He desired a dying. It was sick. Wrong. Abominably. Genesis tore himself away from his lover's body with a pit spreading in his chest, tottered, clutching the wall of the hut, and then swiftly dashed out into the opening, breathing fresh air as if it was the only gift he craved. His whole body, reminiscent of passion, was trembling, aching, longing. Having stooped, the redhead blindly reached down with his hand, squeezed, moved with a jerk, once, twice, senselessly. The release came surprisingly fast, yet the sensation that followed was more pain than pleasure, more torture than bliss. Genesis screamed, feeling something inside him break, screamed again, yet the welkin above was only laughing.

God was laughing at him, as he had once laughed at God.

… Alber came back towards evening, when coal-black darkness has already thickened around the lone dwelling. Having kindled a small fire, they silently waited until the water in the small copper basin boiled. Genesis couldn't make himself speak; the youth still seemed entranced, behaving like a puppet, whose invisible puppeteer occasionally forgot to pull the strings, thus leaving him frozen for along time in one spot and looking anywhere but at Sephiroth.

"This is not going to be easy." Having finally braced himself up, Genesis spoke to his lover's squire, knowing that the latter has already guessed what was coming.

Yet it was a surprise to hear a quiet, resolute, even if said facedown, eyes clinging to the floor, "I am not leaving him, don't ask me to."

"Very well," the irony died on his lips, for no matter how much the redhead wanted to mock that selfless devotion, he couldn't.

The first arrow left his lover's shoulder almost effortlessly, not even waking the knight, but when Genesis' hand touched the shaft that was sticking out of his side, emerald eyes fluttered open for the first time since the fall. They were opaque, vacuous, like voids, and pain was swirling in their depths, endless, scorching pain. Sephiroth couldn't see him, but it was fine until the arrow moved in his body and the thin lips opened for a shriek, like the one he has heard nevermore and was sure he didn't want to hear.

Sephiroth's body arched, pinned to the bed by his squire's trembling hands, blindly strong in the torment that possessed it. The next moment the youth was hurled to the wall, curling into a ball and clutching his head. Genesis' hand moved abruptly and with the steel head finally on his bloodied palms Sephiroth collapsed onto the bed wheezing and quivering.

"Do something, Genesis." Alber pleaded from the corner, "I cannot watch it any longer."

Genesis wasted no time to snap at the youth, snatching at the last shaft and pulling it towards him. This time Sephiroth only whimpered and, having caught his hand, finally relaxed.

There was blood everywhere, as in an abattoir where one hasn't cleaned for a while. Moving slowly as in some nightmare, Genesis gathered all arrowheads and threw them out, mostly since he needed a breath of fresh air. When he returned, he was greeted by the youth's feeble whine, "He has just called for you."

Alber was crying, spreading blood mixed with tears all over his face.

Genesis shuddered, futilely gathering his thoughts while taking a seat by his lover's side. A small streamlet of blood was oozing from the corner of that gorgeous mouth, and the redhead slowly wiped it with the tip of his index finger.

He grieved silently.

…At night blood gushed from his lover's throat, staining his shirt with little carmine droplets when he coughed, and Genesis thought it was finally the end.

It was, however, only the beginning.

* * *

It was the color of newly born spring leaves, sparkling and vivacious, that suited Marguerite the best, inasmuch as it flawlessly accentuated all the shades of her green eyes. Darker colors were also fine, however, the funereal black that turned her into the Black Widow was ugly. It outlined all wrinkles around her eyes, it perfected her pallor and in the black dress she looked older than she was. For any woman of her age it was unpleasant to say the least.

Marguerite, however, didn't have a choice.

With a palpitating heart she heard the messenger's grave words about the approaching funeral cortege, yet felt immensely relieved, as he mentioned it was only her dead husband. The bloody bond with Lorenzo has been sealed and forgotten, Sephiroth was coming back alive, and after the appropriate time of the mourning passed, they would get married and have children, who shall become their true heirs. Like that it was meant to be from the beginning, and now that nightmares were over Marguerite, bloody Marguerite, felt free.

Having resolutely pushed the goblet aside, she shot one last glance at her reflection in the mirror, feeling joy half-and half with fright she would again be rejected. Maybe, she didn't look young enough for Sephiroth. Maybe, her stepson will not find her beautiful in this dress.

Moreover, maybe, he was still in love with that peasant girl

Everything will take time, she told herself calmly or tried hard to remain calm. Overwhelmed by grief of losing his father, Sephiroth will seek consolation in her and that she will offer him with alacrity. The fact it was her who sealed Louis' death was nearly forgotten, pushed far to the back of her consciousness and preoccupied with the much anticipated meeting with Sephiroth heart.

She will be a good faithful wife and her previous sins will be expiated.

In the rustle of long skirts and the whirl of heavy black cloth Marguerite rushed down the stairs as though possessing wings.

Huge raven-black feathers were slowly circling down in the narrow beam of light and she fancied she saw a single wing flap.

It felt as though she had stumbled into a granite wall, wings suddenly and mercilessly cut, breath stolen from her lungs and heart frozen in her chest. The bier had stopped in the courtyard; she could behold Louis' lifeless body on it, but in the crowd of solemnly grave knights her opal eyes could not find the slender silver-haired silhouette of her stepson.

Marguerite told herself that she was the daughter of kings and it helped her a bit. At least she didn't collapse onto the ground in poignant wailing.

They must have taken her pallor as a sign of her deep grievance for the Count. Fools! Where was Sephiroth?

Alfonso alighted, clung to her fingers in a long kiss and Marguerite had to pull her hand out, as though her vassal's lips burnt.

"Milady," he then uttered genuinely ruefully, "milord hath fallen. Please accept my uttermost condolence."

Marguerite flinched, finally having managed to throw an appropriate mournful mask over her otherwise openly perplexed face. "I appreciate your candour, Alfonso. I grieve for my husband's death terribly, yet his lot, however grave, is known to me. Canst thou tell me of the fate of my dearest stepson? "

She was silently reminding him of the agreement they had had before the campaign began. Alfonso slightly blushed and, avoiding her eyes, mumbled.

"I don't know, forgive me, milady. The battle was bloody. I lost him."

The sun, brightly sparkling above, grew dark. Sephiroth…

"Find him, Alfonso," having squeezed his hand between her frail palms, Marguerite, the daughter of kings, begged, "return to the battlefield and find him, dead or alive. Dost thou hear me?"

"Yes, milady."

Could it be that after so much struggle and sacrifice Sephiroth was taken from her, stolen from her by the almighty Death? God will not let it happen. God was merciful. He helped her.

'_Gallop, my dear Alfonso, my only hope,'_ Marguerite thought with lament, as her body submissively bent over the pale corpse of her husband. _'Do not spare your horse.'_

She didn't have to fake tears.

* * *

After a coupe of days of struggle the ritual became almost a routine. Genesis wrung out the bloodied cloth, took a seat by his lover's side and slowly wiped carmine streamlets off the pale immaculate skin. Sephiroth could not feel anything or hear his words, so the redhead often talked to himself when they were alone so that he would not succumb to insanity.

Sephiroth fought for his life with such fervour, such willpower, like the chthonic Giants fought Gods and he was left with watching every single moment of it, asking himself when he could no longer bear it. After the arrows were removed, the fever overpowered his silver-haired lover in hours and against that monstrous pain Genesis was helpless.

He sat vigilant, watching and hoping, and only from time to time allowed Alber to take his place so that he could get at least some rest. Azure eyes reddened from the lack of sleep, the usually goldish skin paled from fatigue, but Genesis couldn't give up now, when he had mercifully been given a second chance.

Fate? God? Providence? Why did the name make so much difference?

At times he was ready to hate Sephiroth for what he had done to him, yet when the silver-haired knight tossed in his uneasy sleep and his name faintly passed the latter's dry, fevered lips the anger became endless sea of pain.

Sephiroth woke up when the second day dawned through the small window of the lopsided hut. Silver lashes fluttered, baring pristine waters of emerald pools and the knight asked for water, hardly realizing Genesis was by his side all the time.

"Genesis?" The realization dawned so reluctantly in the deep voice that he could only hate himself at the moment for abandoning his lover. Sephiroth had no hope he would return, that much was true. That much was his fault.

"I am here." He said softly, words blending with lips pressed to the frail hand.

"You came back," the weak reproof rustled in return, "only knowing I was dying."

"This is not true!"

But Sephiroth could not hear him any longer, smirk fading on his thin lips as the shadow fell over his pale face. On the silver crescents beads of sweat glistened as morning dew.

Then there was another day of delirium, of struggle and pain.

"Genesis." Someone called out for him quietly, and the redhead jerked his head up, abruptly awoken out of sleep, as though by the icy tub of water poured over him. "Messire is awake and he asked for you."

The redhead swiftly rose and, having shot one last glance at the setting sun, strode into the hut, keeping himself together. Sephiroth greeted him with a tired gesture, and Alber obeyed the knight's order, leaving them alone.

This time his silver-haired lover was strong enough to keep himself conscious for more than mere moments. Genesis felt sick. It was time for explanations, genuine words, however, he felt lacking them anew, as if Sephiroth's silver-green eyes possessed the power to bereave him of his ability to think.

"We lost, didn't we?" The knight began in a runabout way. It still hurt to see how week and pale he was, but at least the worst was already behind or so the redhead hoped.

"We did," he replied warily, having found no spot to rivet his eyes on and chosen his hands. All they have been through notwithstanding, Genesis suddenly realized he didn't know on what terms he should address the viscount, as his lover, as his friend or, perhaps, as a brief passing acquaintance. Genesis desperately wanted to add, 'I love you' or at least, 'I saved you', however, the tone chosen by the knight didn't allow him to. Obviously, Sephiroth didn't want his words. "The King and around sixty of his knights was able to abscond nearly unharmed. He was welcomed at the nearby castle until his wound will be healed…"

Genesis started lengthy explanations about the fate of the remains of the defeated French army, which he got to know from the villagers Alber encountered, but Sephiroth soon interrupted him, "Genesis, it can wait. I know that my army is no more. I do not wish to be reminded of it at this moment."

There was something broken in that voice, grief, resentment, acceptance, or else he could not tell, only that there was a fissure now, and that underneath his flawless ideals something cracked. What? How?

His mouth turned dry, "You want to know what I am doing here, am I right?" His usually melodic voice was a husky croak. Silence was the only answer. Azure gaze dashed around the room in search of another _convenient_ spot aside from his fingers and the knight's face. "I though you would forgive me if I… if I…"

"Saved me?" Sephiroth magnanimously helped him out of his stammering. Was he so cruel to question the plausible explanations with mockery? "Consider yourself forgiven. If that is what you want."

Cerulean eyes widened. He raped a girl, hurting for his lover. He followed the French army through marshes and battles. He finally found Sephiroth dying on the hill and fought for his life as if it were his own.

He… he…

And all the redhead got in return was this cold reply, tearing through his heart.

_Consider yourself forgiven…_

"Damn you, Sephiroth!" Having exploded with anger, Genesis started pacing up and down the small room, screaming as he did so, "Do you want to argue now? Do you want to make everything harder than it already is? Fine, be it your way, but stop pretending you do not care!"

The redhead thought he heard am exasperated sigh, "Do you not remember ending everything between us?"

"I did, but I…"

Sephiroth raised himself on the elbow abruptly and immediately fell onto the bed with a shrill, heartbreaking shriek. Genesis swiftly spun around to see a scarlet stain spreading on his already threadbare bloodied shirt.

"Sephiroth!"

In a moment Genesis was by the bedside, holding his lover in his arms even as emerald eyes rolled under the eyelids and silver head helplessly rested against his shoulder. "Sephiroth," he repeated calmer, softer, fervently kissing thin lips and plunging his fingers into the weightless silver veil. The viscount responded, waking passion between them, and Genesis eagerly drew forward, unaware of the dark silhouette silently standing behind.

* * *

"_Högni__'s heart__  
__in my hand shall lie,__  
__cut bloody from the breast__  
__of the valiant chief,__  
__the king's son,__  
__with a dull-edged knife..."_

Evenly nutating, knees pressed to his chest, Alber sat near the hut's threshold and sang. His voice was trembling from helpless sobs, which kept escaping his lips no matter how hard he tried to restrain himself. It seemed all he could do was weep while it was clearly Genesis' merit his master had survived.

Where would Sephiroth be without the strange redheaded monk? Genesis was his true friend.

Having risen to his feet, the youth began to skirt the hut, fighting a desperate desire to know what had happened between them and what they were talking about, whenas there was a shrill shriek and a desperate exclamation of his master's name following, having turned his blood cold. The youth rushed towards the hut, baring his dagger. If Genesis hurt his liege, he would kill him the same way he killed the Englishman…

Freezing in his tracks, all coherent thoughts suddenly gone, Alber watched them kiss, his lord's silver head on the redhead's shoulder and the latter's lips slowly moving in time with his lover's. Every detail was so clear it could have as well been painted with a brush. It was half burning curiosity and half shock that kept his eyes glued to the sight in the dim depths of the hut, so beautiful it was, so alluring, so… he had no words to describe the scene even in his head.

It couldn't be their first time.

Everything fell into place, from his master's worry for Genesis' fate to their frequent meetings in the marquee, to the redhead's anxiety and concern. They were lovers.

Hazel eyes wide opened, so hard it was to comprehend that thought, Alber leaned against the doorway, almost expecting Genesis to go further. His fist with the unsheathed dagger in it unclenched and the small weapon fell onto the floor with a faint clang, soft, however, enough for Genesis to let go of his lover and leap up to his feet. Sephiroth was obviously too enervated to move or object, but the redhead rushed after him and, as soon as they were in the open, the youth felt a strong palm coiling around his throat. Fierce azure eyes drew so close he could count all scorching specks in their depths and in them he was lost, mesmerized as a bird by the serpent's stare.

Alber knew Genesis would not spare his life.

"What do you think you are doing?" The hiss was much like the serpent's as well, and the youth could feel his knees wobbling. He could not match anything against Genesis cunningness and strength.

"I… it was an accident, sire, pleas-s-se…" the words were turning into series of wheezing sounds, inasmuch as the grip around his neck wasn't slackening.

The redhead let go of him and, having cornered to the wall, continued watching, making Alber wish he'd disappear. "If I ever hear you bragging or talking to anyone about what you have seen, you are dead."

The monk's words were clearly a threat and even his pitiful expression could not soften the redhead's resolve.

"Why will I want to do that?" Sobbing anew, Alber covered his face with his palms and forced in a shaky voice, "I have no one else left."

That was another bitter truth. If Sephiroth was taken by Inquisition, the squire would end up in the streets as a vagrant, doomed to leave a sordid life.

Satisfied, Genesis sneered into his face and disappeared inside. Alber didn't dare to follow.

Alber didn't even dare to think what was happening in the hut.

After that incident his life became a torment of another kind. The thoughts he was having became poignant, the images enervating, bereaving him of any sense of sanity and conciliation. At first Alber saw the eyeless bloody body, but after he had witnessed Sephiroth and Genesis kissing, new dreams began haunting him more and more often and in those he was kissing his liege himself. Furthermore, in his sleep the youth at times saw, no, imagined for he has never really _seen_, Sephiroth naked and Viscount du Bugey would always smile at him with angelic bitterness, so godlike in his forms, so perfect he could hardly be undesirable, and those images rendered him sick to his stomach in the morning. What was happening to him? God always punished lechery and sodomy, strictly forbidding any nefarious adultery of that kind, yet his beloved master, the one to whom his devotion was endless, turned out to be a sinner of the worst kind. Was the suffering Genesis' and Sephiroth's divine punishment for that irremissible sin and, if so, what now awaited him, since he wasn't going to abandon or, God forbid, betray his lord for that reason?

Reason and faith blended into nothingness, leaving him an empty husk of his previous self, the naïve, sweet one, of whom now hardly anything could survive.

They were all paying the price for their sins and his liege's sin turned out to be the worst one.

A day after he has first seen Sephiroth and Genesis kissing Alber was sent to the nearby village again. There he has noticed a man he could vaguely recall looking for Sephiroth. Following him around, the youth got to know the latter's name. it was Alfonso, one of the Count's vassals. If the man found the hut and realized that his lord's stepson had a lover and his lover was a monk, Sephiroth's life and reputation would be destroyed.

Alber swore he would never fail or abandon his liege.

With a longbow found on the battlefield Alber waited for Alfonso in the forest of Crecy and when the latter came in sight, drew the bow-string and with a twang released an arrow that pierced his unprotected chest. Having flung his arms awkwardly, the knight fell and his frightened horse dashed into a nearby thicket with a loud, mournful neigh.

He has already killed once. Doing so for the second time turned out to be a lot easier.


	22. Chapter XXI: Memories and broken dreams

**_A/N: _**Theme song - 'Obire Mortem' by _Sirenia_. It's quite beautiful, I believe. XD

* * *

_**Chapter XX**__**I.**_

_**Memories and broken dreams.**_

"_Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only dreamt for." (Epicurus)._

A huge covered wagon slowly jogged down the tortuous, bumpy road. It was one of the first days of fall when it was still warm, yet yellow leaves have already gilded the ground, and wind among those bright weightless spots rustled so enticingly.

Marguerite, daughter of the dead French king, rested her head against the draped wall and closed her eyes. The anxiety she's been feeling all the time was wearing her out, and even long hours of rest she had during the monotonous journey did not help. After Alfonso hasn't returned and hasn't sent a single message about his findings, Marguerite had no choice but to set out on this journey alone, leaving all castle matters in the hands of her personal chaplain, father Francis. The Benedictine was extremely dissatisfied with her careless decision to depart so soon after her husband had found his last rest in its catacombs, however, she could no longer sleep and eat regularly without knowing what misfortune befell her beloved stepson.

Windows barely larger than chinks in a prison cell allowed the rare rays of setting sun to caress her skin, giving some color to accentuated by funeral blackness paleness. The wobbling wooden wall wasn't the best spot to recline on, her head being constantly tossed from side to side rather painfully, and somewhere in the scantly lit depths Etienne, her maiden's son, was whimpering. With each passing hour Marguerite regretted about forgetting to order Kathy to leave her child behind.

She wanted to sleep and couldn't. Her craving was relentless, more a disease than a feeling, for she could not bear the thought of being denied her stepson's love now that she has gone so far. God was clement. God loved her, even though she sinned. God will not let him die.

The baby whimpered again, louder this time. "Kathy, keep him silent!" Marguerite raised her voice at her maiden, feeling a splitting headache from Etienne's cries.

"I am sorry, milady," Kathy hastily hushed her son, and he lapsed into silence. "Would you like me to read?"

"Maybe, later. I am not in the mood."

Her thoughts were preoccupied with Sephiroth.

Kathy was silent for a few moments, intently watching her, then suddenly declared with censure, "I know it is not something I should be talking about, but I am concerned about milady, and she seems to forget everything when she looks at her stepson. Milady shouldn't behave herself like that, more so since milord has just passed away."

Marguerite flinched, shifting her gaze to the younger woman, obviously displeased and angry with the latter's prying words, thinking that, perhaps, she was too lenient to her servants.

"My relationships with my dead husband and Sephiroth should be of no concern to you, Kathy." The daughter of kings gave a brusque answer, nevertheless disliking what her maiden was getting at. Was it true that her servants started talking about her behind her back? Should she punish them?

"It is milady's reputation I am worried about."

Opal eyes dangerously narrowed, ire swirling within. "My reputation?"

"The sudden departure may lead _some_ of us to believe that milady fancied her son over her God's chosen husband." The maiden continued boldly. "Does milady want to be suspected of adultery? Does milady want rumours of young milord Louis being a bastard from her stepson?"

_How dare they judge her?_

Marguerite drew forward, her face distorted and opal eyes filling with malign tears. "Do you know how many times my husband cheated on me? Humiliated me? Laughed at me?" Her yells broke forth into sobs. "I don't care what they say!"

Kathy moved up to her and sympathetically stroked her arm, "I know, milady, but we are women. Our lot's always harder. God demands more from us." Then sighed. "Milady shouldn't cry. If I were milady, I would turn the wagon around…"

Marguerite pushed the maiden away with unwomanly strength, angrily wiping all tears out of her eyes, "Do not tell me what to do, Kathy! I am not going back until I find Sephiroth!"

The younger woman shrunk back into her corner with the sad expression on her face.

"As you wish, milady."

A fine time to be lectured on her improper behaviour that was!

Infuriated Marguerite looked out of the window, fighting an urge to throw her insolent maiden out of the wagon and a sinking feeling the girl was right about her reputation. If she could not keep it virgin clean, there would be dozens of avid, envious kites ready to rive her family and divide her lands between themselves should any shadow of suspicion fall on her son, Louis II; the law would be on their side.

And then there was Lorenzo, who now had limitless power over her, to worry about if the merchant was to take into his head a thought to bring her down or extort money from her.

Marguerite helplessly shook her head. She has already gone too far. It was better to accept everything as it was and put all her efforts into searching for her stepson. When she finds Sephiroth, everything will be all right. The thought returned persistently, and Marguerite didn't want to let go of her last hope.

_Everything will be all right_.

The wagon was slowly crawling along Loire. Among withering, yellow grass last poppies were blooming, their drooping crimson crowns glowing like embers in the dying fire.

Marguerite was remembering.

* * *

It happened in early summer of 1343, during birthday celebration of Philip, the young son of the Duke of Burgundy. After the splendid joust, whereat her stepson had earned a jocular title, Rose of the Ladies' Hearts, by defeating almost every noble present there, the cordial host held a tumultuous reception at his ancestral castle. The knight's hall was decorated with utmost possible luxury, the décor, from shining golden draperies to hundreds of candles put into silver chandeliers and garlands of fresh flowers twined around the columns, screaming of wealth to accentuate the family's obvious nobility and ascendancy at the King's court. By some foolish vagary of the Duke's son every guest had to wear either a golden or a scarlet cotardie, yet neither colors suited her stepson. Sephiroth chose scarlet. She chose scarlet. Maybe, it was the color. Maybe, it was the wine.

But it happened.

Once.

Her husband was there, too, but, engrossed in the conversation with the Duke and quite drunk, to be honest, missed the moment when most guests, having satiated themselves, abandoned their seats and gathered in the middle of the hall for a boisterous istanpitta, the newest Italian dance_._ To have musicians invited and modern music performed was another sign of prosperity, and it seemed the Duke of Burgundy wanted to amaze his guests with the exquisiteness of his taste.

The effervescent music filled the hall, and to it the jolly nobles joined their hands in the circle; Sephiroth was to her right, and, as their fingers entwined, her heart skipped a beat and desperately leapt up to her throat. It was a meaningless touch, however, melting in his strong hand, she felt so safe, like she has always belonged there, in her stepson's embrace.

They began whirling, laughter blending with the joyous rhythm of tambourines and jingles, candle light sparkling on gems and in the eyes no less bright. The ephemeral jubilant atmosphere engulfed, and soon all she was seeing were a drop of silver in emerald lakes, a smile on thin lips, and hair flying over her stepson's slender frame in a veil of color of the young ice. Having tossed her head in a regal manner, Marguerite joyously laughed. The feeling was divine.

Having flung their arms upwards, the nobles in the circle broke up into pairs. She ended up with Sephiroth and, while his arms gently settled on her waist, wrapped hers around the chiselled neck. The scarlet cloth of long sleeves cascaded over her stepson's broad chest, having hid the small golden rose he had to wear after his victories on the tiltyard. They were so close that she could count weightless silver locks scattered on the marble forehead.

They were so close.

Once.

She stepped back, opal eyes shining, searching for the starlight gaze of emerald ones, yet inevitably stumbling upon the impenetrable wall of trembling silver lashes. He was avoiding her penetrating looks. Why didn't he understand that all she always wanted was to make him happy? Why didn't he understand that she was ready to give all of herself to him?

Herself.

Her. Everything.

They parted, joined only by the tips of their fingers touching, hands curved in a bridge between them, then met anew, parted and met, circling each other, and slim, clad in scarlet, body with majestic posture flowed around her, like river's waters.

Closer, trembling in his arms, further, hands joined, slower, their legs moving together, faster, laughing, gasping for breath. The rhythm of tambourines deafened. The smell of fresh summer flowers intoxicated. The movements enthralled…

Having finished the dance, the nobles scattered around the hall, and she availed herself on the opportunity, boldly talking his hand and sweeping him along with her to the lancet window, furthest one from the tables. Sephiroth followed.

Once.

Maybe, it was the color that never suited him. Maybe, it was the wine.

"Sephrioth," she prattled with a dazzling smile, "it's a wonderful evening, dost thou agree?"

Her hand as though inadvertently covered his fingers. He didn't move, perhaps, mesmerized by the dance, although he never really was the sentimental type. Marguerite watched her stepson from the corner of her eyes afraid to scare away the timid bird of such a rare precious moment. He was like a star that day, a bright morning star.

Her words called forth a gentle thoughtful smile, "It has been a while since I felt that much at peace. The serenity is almost unreal… mother. Dost thou feel it?"

He wasn't guarded; the music, the ebullience, the besotting smell of fresh flowers tore away his flawless mask, exposing the inner depth. He rarely let anyone see this far.

Marguerite was both excited and bewildered, inasmuch as she didn't know what to say to this sudden revelation.

"Why don't you ever talk to me when there's something troubling your mind?" Her voice was quiet, or the bird might fly away.

Sephiroth absently took her hand, dropped his head onto his scarlet clad chest, "You will not understand."

"Children always say that, yet no one understands them like their parents," timidly Marguerite threw the silver veil off his face and let her sliding through shorter tresses fingers rest on his broad shoulder. She knew none of the drunken nobles was watching.

Her stepson didn't move away, even as she cupped the sculptured face and, having tiptoed, pressed her trembling lips to his.

He didn't move away.

Once.

In her hands she was holding a dream. In her hands a morning star shone brightly.

None has ever kissed her more gently than Sephiroth. When her husband went to battle the Flemish insurgents, Marguerite had a brief affair with the young knight whose name was effaced form her memory. Was it Jean? Or Julien? She had occasionally allowed herself nearly chaste flirts with other barons or earls, and those never went further than kisses, however, she felt the difference at once.

It wasn't demanding bestial passion or maladroit haste of youngsters, but slow innate confidence of a man, who knew his worth and path in life. In him it was most alluring.

How many lovers could he possibly have had after Joan's death?

The ice shattered, and, shedding last shards, Sephiroth deepened the kiss with infatuating tenderness and sloth.

It didn't last long, as dreams don't last long or unclouded happiness. He drew away before the realization they were kissing could completely sink in, and thereupon there was just hollow and the chilling breath of wind on her lips that still tasted her stepson's affection.

"My apologies, mother," Sephiroth mumbled, as though having awoken out of dream.

"There's nothing to apologize for," having bit her lower lip, she hastened too much, expressed too much fervour, ruining the still moment when he was hers, a single moment in the eternity of her waiting. Emerald waters, so vivid and sparkling an instant ago, froze over, and he was guarded anew, a pillar, radiating cold light, the icy perfection. "Didn't you want it?"

Maybe, it was the color. Maybe, it was the wine.

But they kissed.

Once.

"I forgot myself."

The next moment his straight silver-plated back disappeared in the obstreperous crowd of nobles.

It was summer three years ago. It was celebration of Philip's birthday. It happened therein.

Once.

Will Sephiroth remember it now, when she was free?

* * *

The world before Sephiroth's eyes quivered, like a veil, which, if removed, would bare shapes uglier and more macabre than he has ever seen. Somewhere in the back of his head he was hearing battle cries and desperate yells of the dying; thereat he was still fighting, frantically parrying the blows and reposting, straining his last strength, his flamboyant sword slipping through series of unyielding moments and flashing like lightning.

Thereat they weren't yet doomed, while his broken body lay helplessly pinned to the bed by fever and weakness, trapped in reality where everything was already lost.

Genesis' beautiful face flickered among the scraps of visions of his army's cruel demise. His redheaded lover scolded him, mocked him thereafter, in all manner of sharp ways repeating that he had failed. In short moments of halcyon serenity they kissed and the knight asked himself how that was possible, unable to discern reality from mind-scorching delusion.

Then more images returned to torment him. Since their exile from Flanders he allowed himself to make too many mistakes, one following after another in a chain he was unable to break. The defeat they sustained at Crecy was the last drop. It was his flaw. His weakness.

His.

Some pieces of his always perfect conundrum of thoughts were amiss, empty hollows gaping, and no matter how he tried, the dots would not connect. Maybe, it was the fever. Maybe, it was another flaw.

Sephiroth quietly groaned when with another careless movement a jolt of incisive pain shot through his body.

His weakness. His.

Thoughts and feelings were floating on the surface of his mind, never sinking deeper, never touching the core, like black feathers on the deep lake's waters. He expected to feel regret and pain, knowing that the last words he has ever spoken to his stepfather were harsh, unfair ones. They never were very close to each other, yet to him the Count was dear enough to leave emptiness with his passing. The viscount expected to feel at least something about Genesis' sudden return, yet couldn't discern a single thread of emotion, besides nearly perfect lack thereof. Death sneaked so close to him this time, and his acceptance of it, his conscious sacrifice has built a shell inside, within which he was still dead.

His will was done. The cup has emptied.

Pain remained.

"Genesis," once the blurred vision has cleared, the knight spoke to his lover's back, and his words came out of his unyielding throat as a croak. "Help me rise."

Azure eyes met his, and Sephiroth could see how tired his lover was, dark bags visible under his eyes and his goldish skin ever so pale.

"You nearly died," Genesis upbraided with endless weariness, "I am not letting you scare me like that for the second time."

"Genesis," he raised his voice only to see the auburn head ruefully tilt sideways.

"No." His lover whispered nearly soundlessly, and he had to lipread. "No."

Didn't Genesis understand that the French lost because of his weakness? That he could no longer allow himself to be feeble?

Hellish pain echoed though his back with yet another futile attempt to rise. "Genesis!"

"No. Do not ask me to."

_Do you love me, Genesis?_

_No… no…__ no…_

_

* * *

_

…How many hours, days, or even weeks had passed since he awoke for the last time, Sephiroth did not know. Every muscle in his body was stiff, and the rigidity was hardly a less agonizing torment than pain in the healing wounds.

Emerald eyes slowly opened. It was dark, and in the wan light of a single candle Genesis' silhouette could be seen, trenchantly outlined by the greyish rays of dusky sun.

"What day is it?" The knight asked weakly, having abandoned all previous attempts to move.

The redhead eyed him with the same weariness. "It's September the fifth."

Fifth of September… he's been in and out of delirium for nearly ten days.

"I believe, my apology and gratitude are in order." His gaze slowly slid lower and, as he caught sight of the bloodstained flaxen shirt, dashed upwards. The cloth adhered to his skin and itched so terribly the viscount would have preferred to see his hands tied together, so unbearable the desire to tear the crust off his wounds was.

"It won't hurt to hear them." Genesis leaned against the wall, watching him, legs and arms crossed, his manner to get a hold of himself perfected to nearly nonchalant. It seemed the redhead was determined not to let himself boil over this time.

A smirk on thin lips was fleeting, tired. "Thank you for saving me."

Azure eyes warmed. "I am glad to see you in a different mood. I do hope if the tables were to turn, you'd do the same for me," to which Sephiroth, being honest, simply said, "I will."

With another lenient glance Genesis bent over something.

"That being settled you need to eat. Alber brought you food. He is a faithful little one." The redhead reappeared before his eyes closer, holding a tray of fresh fruit, cold mutton, and bread. "He knows, mind you."

Moving as little as he could, Sephiroth turned to the side, having, however, rejected Genesis' attempts to feed him. He was no longer that weak.

"Knows what?" The viscount mumbled, having picked up a piece of meat and taken a bite, desperately trying to maintain an outward decorum, as hunger made itself felt, spreading like a hollow in his stomach. The redhead uttered a strained chuckle.

"That we are lovers." His hand with a piece of bread in it froze half way between the tray and his mouth. Genesis said that they still were lovers. Weren't they? "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," wincing from pain, Sephiroth finally swallowed the food. "You still haven't explained the reason…"

Genesis irritably interrupted him, "What reason are you looking for? Isn't it obvious that I love you… Seph…"

The way it was said, melodic voice fading like the harp's strings, raised a wave of warmth from the depth of his heart. The viscount smiled, emerald eyes flashing brightly between dropping silver eyelashes. His lover's confession was like music to his ears, a faint rustle of autumn leaves, a siren's song.

_Seph…_

No one has ever called him like that before, not that he will ever want to hear anyone else saying his shortened name as Genesis did. The redhead could touch his soul so easily. Why? Why so late?

"Even despite my unwillingness to lead Crusades against Pope?" Sephiroth wasn't sure where his loyalties now were, but he was compelled to ask. That had nothing to do with Genesis' love.

"Ah, the Crusades… they can wait."

The silver-haired knight slowly put the tray aside, meeting his lover's eyes, looking straight into their bottomless depths, as though hoping to find the missing answers there, in cerulean sparkling pools.

Genesis has already betrayed his feelings once, and this sudden recant of his previous beliefs wasn't to be taken lightly. The deep voice rang apprehensively, "Suppose, I believe you, but why the sudden change of mind?"

Relieved, the redhead climbed up on the narrow bed behind the knight, gingerly pressed his whole body to the latter's uninjured side. "One day you will understand everything, Seph. I hope that day will not come too late, when I am all old and grey."

Although Sephiroth couldn't see his lover's face, he knew Genesis was smiling; that the knight could tell by the slightest change in the tone of melodic voice that flowed like iridescent waters.

The viscount leaned into that familiar warmth, wondering what Genesis implied by those words and feeling that just with a simple touch his lover has restored some missing pieces of his shattered conundrum. Some. Not all.

Reviving everything was no more possible than turning the wheel of time backwards.

Genesis' palms slowly began stroking his hair, so exquisite in their tenderness, so unforgettable in their caress he could just lie and revel in waves of peace for hours, thinking of nothing but fingers smoothly sliding between his long tresses.

Then Sephiroth wondered how long he could stay awake this time.

It was calm before a storm. He made too many mistakes to ask for absolution that he no longer desired.

"Genesis, kiss me," Sephiroth whispered, restraining a moan that a wave of pain begot anew, and, as their lips joined, wearily closed his eyes, wishing to say…

_I love you, Genesis…_

Wishing everything would be easy.

However, simplicity wasn't for his likes, inasmuch as some were born for happiness and others – for greatness.

* * *

The coachman opened the door to the huge covered wagon, and Marguerite gracefully leaned on his arm to step out of her moving quarters. The early autumn sun lashed her eyes, and they filled with tears from unwonted brightness. Her long black skirts rustled on the ground among the fallen leaves, as the daughter of kings glided towards the huts that still looked inhabited.

Kathy with Etienne hurried after, every minute trying to shush his loud cries.

The village of Crecy nearly died, the sight mimicking others she's seen on her way through the war marred lands. In Amiens she passed some days earlier there was a mourning of another kind. When Marguerite neared the settlement, the air filled with shrill knells that scared off a swarm of crows which rose from the bodies, piled by the gates, with loud cawing. A frightened villager told her those were the Genovese 'traitors', those who had survived the slaughter at Crecy and were later chosen as scapegoats for the Philippe's defeat. The neighbourhood abounded with footpads, deserters and shady folk of different social origins, form homeless peasants to squires who have lost their masters.

Then she regretted to have taken only one guard with her.

As she went by, the peasants shot sullen looks at her, and Marguerite couldn't blame them. She looked like an ugly crow, a black dot in the autumn vividness, expected to deliver more grave news, more trouble to tired villagers. At the sight of her fists clenched around the homely weapons, and eyebrows knitted. She was clearly not welcome, her nobility betrayed by sleek face and well-cared-for hands. It seemed the chapped faces asked her if she knew how hard their life was. Asked and envied.

Nevertheless, fear could not stop Marguerite from searching for her stepson.

She was lucky Sephiroth had such an eminent appearance, his long silver hair a remarkable trait that led her from one human dwelling to another. Here and there she was able to find her stepson's traces by questioning peasants, and some of them did see a cart with a silver-haired young man on it.

Her heart sang.

Sephiroth was alive, even if severely wounded. In his helpless state it was more likely he'd welcome her sincere help and finally return her unrequited love.

"Me heard milady was looking for an angel," a crude hoarse voice rang from behind, and Marguerite froze in her tracks. With as much dignity as she could muster up, the daughter of French kings turned, having leaned on her coachman's arm with all her weight. That voice made her cringe in horror, and, having heard the man, Etienne uttered a whimper.

"I don't know what you are talking about, good man."

The bloke in front of her was short and hunchbacked, his long arms nearly sweeping the dusty road covered in withering yellow leaves. His small eyes didn't lack a spark of intelligence, yet, otherwise, the peasant was ugly, with a hooked nose and scarred lips.

Indeed, fear hath a hundred eyes.

"Milady was asking about a silver-haired lad", the lout grinned, having showed her rows of rotten stubs of teeth. "Me need money, milady wants her knight. A fair deal, Loki says."

His language was terrible as well, and Marguerite wrinkled her nose in disdain, "How much do you want?" The dark hollows of his eyes avidly flared, as the peasant unmistakably sensed her weakness revealed so carelessly.

"A golden coin for the angel. Much me ask, milady."

"How do I know you're not lying?" The coachman nodded with approval, shielding her in case the bloke decided to earn his golden coin by simply robbing a noble lady.

"Me hunt deer in the forest when me saw a young lad…"

"With silver hair?" She interrupted with a regal toss of her chin.

"Milady is impatient. Milady likes the knight," the lout grinned again, nodded several times, as though calculation something in his ugly head. "He was an average lad, much like Loki himself, but he was young and alone. Me curious. Me followed him. Me like lads." He giggled. "He came to a hut. Another man, tall and pretty, like milady, met him. They spoke. Me waited."

"And?" Marguerite hurried the unexpected helper.

"They disappeared in the hut. Me thought they were deserters. Me thought they could share. " There was another giggle, annoying gurgling sound, that for some reasons sent unpleasant shivers down her spine. "Loki is sneaky. Knows how to hide. Knows how to wait and look, and _see_. They had a third one with them. He had silver hair. He looked like an angel."

"It is not enough," she demanded. "What else can you tell me?"

The man looked offended, "Milady doesn't believe Loki. Good milady wants a name and a name I shall giver her… for a copper. A name for a copper, an angel for the gold coin. "

With disgust Marguerite extended him a requested copper.

"Me see like a falcon and hear like a vixen. Sephiroth is the name milady wants. Sephiroth is the angel's name." His words turned into barely coherent mumblings, as he made a couple of dancing movements. "Eyes of a falcon, ears of a vixen… a copper for a name, a gold coin for an angel… a copper…"

Marguerite wasn't listening. There was no way the lout could have known her beloved stepson's name, unless he has seen him. Joy flooded her heart.

"Show me the way."

Her maiden, having finally calmed her crying son, whispered, "Milady, I don't like him," but Marguerite shrugged her off with a grimace followed by the impatient gesture.

"Kathy, give this... man a golden coin." A glistening pellet fell onto the dusty road, and a strange lout, who kept calling himself Loki, avidly scooped and pocketed the desired reward.

"Follow Loki, milady. Trust Loki to find your knight."

Did Marguerite have a choice?

* * *

It was a second day after Sephiroth finally shook off the chains of his delirium when Genesis, his stern jailer, decided he could have some fresh air.

The day was warm, the welkin above clear, and bright spots of first yellow and red leaves vivified the green linen of grass. Sephiroth inhaled with pleasure, closing his eyes, and stepped over the threshold of the desolated hut that, Genesis was right, resembled the one they burnt before the ill-starred campaign. His head was still spinning a bit from blood loss and recent fever, but when he leaned on his lover's arm, dizziness passed.

They were walking around the glade, each step slow and chosen carefully. They were silent. The pleasure was just in strolling side by side for the first time since the scraps of infatuating night, crowned with besotting smell of sandalwood, scattered before the spears of the warriors of dawn. Much time had passed since, many irremediable mistakes were made; the war was lost, his stepfather died, and they were left with last peaceful days of the early fall.

The hollow of unknown waited thereafter.

The sunlit welkin above resembled the color of Genesis' eyes, the latter still deeper and brighter, and warmer. Sephiroth wished that light could fill the new void in him, but the sunrays penetrated the deep well only to be swallowed by blackness.

Guilt. Weakness. Flaw.

He stumbled. He fell.

_Genesis…_

The viscount must have uttered his lover's name aloud, for the redhead turned and gently drew forward, wrapping his arms around his neck.

"Shush, Sephiroth," the whisper blended into a kiss, gentle as gusts of summer wind, parted lips barely touching and faint breaths mingling.

The missing pieces of conundrum, the fringe of shattered faith, darkness, all in him, overwhelming.

_Kiss me, Genesis… do not let go..._

Lips danced between lips, sliding and alternating in tender caresses, enveloping, soft and hot, and in the kiss Sephiroth was drowning.

Above him bright autumn leaves were slowly falling to the ground.

* * *

Marguerite flew as though possessing wings. Her black dress was torn by twigs, crimson marks showed on pale skin of her hands and cheeks, but Marguerite ran through the thicket, paying her pain no heed.

The yokel didn't lie.

When through the twisted branches she saw a glimpse of splendid silver, Marguerite thought her legs would give away, yet instead the feeling was like she had just been gifted with a pair of wings.

The air burnt in her lungs, as a glade with a hut eminent above it neared, and she could clearly see two silhouettes strolling towards her. One of them had a bright halo of silver around him, the other, whoever it could have been, was of no concern.

At first Marguerite wanted to dash out into the opening and inarm her stepson, yet something alerted her. Both men were far away, however, she could clearly see they were holding hands. Could it be that underneath that disguise his peasant mistress hid?

Clenching her fists in agonizing fit of jealousy, she watched both lovers cross the glade and, having halted a couple of yards from where she hid, kiss.

She must be pretty, Marguerite thought, mercilessly crumpling black sleeves in her hands, with rich auburn hair and a slender frame. Young, too. Then something in her head snapped, and Marguerite began to realize it wasn't a woman. It couldn't be. The shapes were sharper, hands stronger, shoulders, outlined by the loose green undershirt, broader. That stranger was touching her stepson, stealing what she once felt, tainting Sephiroth, and disparaging his name, her name, their name…

A man… all this time her stepson loved a man.

_Oh, God, have mercy on me…_

Staggering, as if in a nightmare, Marguerite left the safety of a tree trunk and made one step towards the oblivious lovers. They were still kissing, and who better than her could recognize tender light in Sephiroth's emerald eyes, shining so softly, just like when he was kissing her. It was unbearable to watch.

_Oh, benign Father, let me die…_

Then the realization dawned upon her, and she shook her head, trying to dismiss the haunting nightmare. The brazen hair, the slender body, all of him resembled a man her stepson brought to her castle one warm spring day. Genesis was his name. He was supposed to be dead. Sephiroth told her he had hung the culprit, which meant that their feelings were furtively born long before she condemned herself by killing her own husband. All of it, in the name of a lie.

Another step was agonizing, her legs moving slowly, as though forged from steel. The lovers were still kissing, deeply, passionately, while she was standing therebeside like a fool, watching with a soundless scream stuck in her throat, until Sephiroth drew back a bit, and their eyes suddenly met.

Marguerite would have fainted if not for the astonished, yet quiet exclamation that ripped her chest open as with a rusty knife.

"Mother!"


	23. Chapter XXII: Love and hatred

_A/N: _And, finally, the discovery.

* * *

_**Chapter XX**__**II.**_

_**Love and hatred.**_

"_Hate is too great a burden to bear. It injures the hater more than it injures the hated.__" (Unknown author)._

It was sheer joy to see Sephiroth walking by his side, the knight's gait otherworldly and confident anew, albeit he was still hobbling a bit from the wound in his thigh. Genesis could be proud of himself because for once, instead of taking someone's life, he has kindled the dying embers and warmed the flower, withering from winter's breath. The content was new, the pleasantry delightful, likely, resembling the sensation any woman experienced when giving birth to a child. For now it flooded every corner of his soul, a feeling strong enough to make him forget about vengeance he craved, bloodshed he imagined, and plans he nurtured.

For once he found peace, and for once it was all he desired.

The question of how long this delusion could possibly last was, on the contrary, the question he did not want to ask.

Then they kissed, and the kiss was simple and reciprocal, as their tongues gently slid against each other seeking sensual pleasure, not dominance. Genesis drew forwards, leaning into the familiar broad chest, tilting his head a bit upwards, so that his taller lover could deepen the kiss and he, eyes blinded by gushing sunlight to a point when Sephiroth's face blurred in a halo of emerald and silver, could feel every inch of thin lips and light passion of his tender explorations. Long fingers clenched Sephiroth's shoulders, the arch of his body deepened and, as he unnoticeably took a breath, his lover' mouth gently covered his lower lip and slowly slid along his chin and jawline to his neck. A breath escaped him as a faint moan.

Genesis knew it was rather selfish of him, since Sephiroth must still be hurting, but he wanted his lover terribly, and this glade was no worse or better than any other place.

Silver lashes caressed his cheek, the forehead rested against his chin, and, having closed his eyes, Genesis expected everything but the quiet exclamation, almost a gasp for breath, "Mother!"

A chill moment hung in the air, and Genesis took advantage of it to turn around, meeting a glare of opal eyes that burnt on a pale vaguely familiar face of a woman dressed in black. Did Sephiroth call her his mother and, if so, what was she doing here, dozens of leagues away from her castle?

A fleeting glance he cast on his lover's face confirmed his worst suspicions; Marguerite, if he remembered her name correctly, has just discovered they were lovers. Having clenched his fists in the long sleeves of his undershirt, frustrated with being so rudely interrupted, Genesis felt no mercy towards the woman although she looked as about to faint.

"What are you doing here, mother?" It was Sephiroth who spoke first, and Genesis recognized his tone even without looking back, the calm, cold notes signifying that he got back his self-mastery. That the redhead could not tell of himself; Sephiroth's mother or not, she had no right to interrupt their rather intimate moment.

However, he was soon compelled to realize how serious the matters were.

"Isn't it obvious, I came searching for you?" Even Genesis flinched at the sound of _that_ voice, a screech of a dagger on ice rather than sounds passing woman's lips. "I was worried about your fate, couldn't sleep, while you hid in the forest, indulging yourself with nefarious sodomy. Is it the son I knew? Is it…"

"I was wounded at Crecy…"

"Do not interrupt your mother!" Marguerite screamed, her voice still shrill, screeching, and with a concealed smirk the redhead wondered how long Sephiroth would bear this lecturing tone and accusations. Then opal eyes fell on him, and his lover's stepmother decided he was a better target for her despair and ire. "This yokel is still here! Order him out of my sight, now!"

Genesis took a step backwards to watch both Sephiroth and Marguerite, unlike his lover, finding the argument quite entertaining and the woman's arrogance amusing. How very common of those average nobles it was, to belittle him so effortlessly.

"Genesis is staying with me, for he has the right to hear everything we say, mother."

However, Sephiroth was clearly vexed and hurt, which in his state was not desirable as any worry could cause his wounds to bleed again, therefore the redhead brought himself to act rather temerariously.

"Let me handle her…" He began only to be interrupted nearly simultaneously by both Marguerite and his lover.

"He dared speaking without being told so…"

"Don't, Genesis," Sephiroth's words were much calmer, however, the warning hardly any clearer, strengthened by the unambiguous squeeze of his hand. Or did the wounded knight simply lean on him for support? "We shall settle this placidly, mother."

"How dare you talk with such indifference?" Like a kite, Marguerite fell upon him with a diatribe. "Hast thou been thinking about the honour of our family and our unsullied name? Of all obloquy that should follow your shameful actions? Hast thou been thinking at all? I don't recognize my stepson in you any more. My stepson would choose continence instead of indulging himself with forbidden pleasure. My stepson used to think about his family that generously offered him shelter and a noble title. What happened to the man I knew?" She implored, writhing her hands and thereat reminding Genesis of a black ugly crow. What a cheap act, he thought thereat with a disdainful smirk. Even street actresses played their roles better. "Hereto I can only add despair of a mother who failed to teach you morale of the Gods word. If… if you spat upon me, upon our ancient traditions, then at least think of God whose punishment would be harsher than any of the words I speak to you out of love, my son… Sephiroth…"

It was also quite cheap to plead God here, yet Sephiroth's reaction astounded him even more, that quiet, resigned, "I know, mother." As if stung by a bee, Genesis fastened his mordant-azure gaze on his lover. What did this sudden defeated attitude mean? However, all his acrimonious replicas stuck in his throat as the redhead realized that the viscount gathered his last strength just to stand straight, his pose sharp and unnatural as of the real ice pillar. How could Marguerite not see how deathly pale his face has suddenly become and how his right hand was clutching the sanguine shirt, as though trying to hold back thin carmine streamlets running from underneath his palm.

Behind the icy-emerald crust of almond-shaped eyes pain was throbbing, and pride only kept him from collapsing at their feet.

_Sephiroth…_

Why didn't this foolish virago see he was hurting?

"You'll have to accept my love for a man."

A shrill shriek, "No!" rooted Genesis to the spot before he could even move to offer his lover any help. "No!" Her face distorted by a grimace, Marguerite hurled a harsh damnation into his face.

"Woe worth the day when we adopted you!"

What was this woman doing?

With anxiety the redhead watched Sephiroth stagger, blood draining from his perfectly chiselled face, already lifeless to the point of frightening him. Marguerite froze, likely, in horror, clasping palms to her lips, as though trying to seal them and by that forgo any other rash replica.

"What am I saying?" Shaken, she mumbled to herself. "Sephiroth, forgive me, forgive your foolish mother, I forgot myself, I was so desperate, I don't know what has come over me," having fallen down at his feet, she seized Sephiroth's pale lender hand and pressed to her lips. "Please, just come back with me, and let's forget this incident. I still see the gleam of good in you… please…" Tears streamed down her face, brown wavy hair falling over her eyes, concealing her stepson's perfectly straight frame, his hand still clutching the bloodied side. Sephiroth exhaled with much ado, tried to say something that passed his white lips in a hiss, whereupon Genesis finally interrupted him.

It was time to end this farce.

"Let's go, milady," having squeezed her wrist, the redhead impolitely jerked the Black Widow to her feet, and she followed him obediently, blindly, suddenly having lost all ardour and willpower to resist. A puppet possessed more vigour. Behind him Sephiroth finally stooped, hugging himself, and plodded towards the hut, yet no matter how much he wanted to be with his lover, Marguerite was to be taken care of first.

"Leave him in peace!"

Genesis' indignant words fell on deaf ears, as Marguerite whom he finally let go leaned against the tree trunk, whispering into the hollow, "God Almighty! What has he done…"

The redhead grabbed her shoulders and violently shook her, "Do you understand, he nearly died ten days ago?" His words, however, provoked an opposite reaction, as Marguerite finally roused herself, eyes focusing on his face.

"Died? I wish he would have died… yes… died…"

Oh, such hypocrisy! If she wasn't a noble, Genesis would have hit her. With a disparaging shrug of his shoulders the redhead let go of the Black Widow. Sephiroth was no longer in sight, poignant anxiety for his state stirring in his chest as a snake, but at the moment Marguerite was more dangerous. A desperate cornered woman, she was capable of doing irremediable damage not just to herself but to her beloved stepson as well, her love notwithstanding.

"Let go of me. I want to see him, to talk to him," finally seeing that Genesis was still stymieing her, the widow regained some of her noble composure, her words ringing as a quiet order. Genesis grimaced.

"Forget about it, I am not letting you near him."

His insolent behaviour finally breathed some life into her, "I am a noble and you are…"

"Do you see an army at your side… milady," the redhead's lips flinched, taking a shape of a sharp sneer, "or at least a decent detachment? Without them we are equal."

"My blood…" she objected in a fine quavering voice, but Genesis impatiently covered her mouth, ignoring the muffled moans heard from underneath his palm.

"I am not him," in azure eyes darkness was swirling, "I forgot what honor is. This way, milady."

Opal eyes widened, anger or fear gave her unwomanly strength, with which Marguerite tore his palm away from her mouth, screaming on top of her voice, "Help me! Help!"

Vexed, Genesis shook his hand, wondering when that virago had time to bite it. He did not wish to hurt Sephiroth's mother, certain that his lover would not appreciate it, but this way or another the redhead had to make sure she was harmless, preferably tied in the hut with a gag in her venomous mouth.

What was she thinking about, having cursed Sephiroth?

The sound of breaking twigs coming from the thicket alerted him before a man rushed in through the bushes with an unsheathed short sword in his hand. "I am coming milady!"

It must have been her guard, and Genesis cursed through clenched teeth for not having thought about precautions earlier.

Having run aside, the redhead frantically looked around for some weapon while the knight bent over trembling Marguerite. "Are you all right, milady?"

"Yes, thank you, this man hasn't hurt me yet."

"Scumbag!" The knight spat out and turned to him. "You shall answer for touching the noble lady!"

Genesis involuntarily backed away, dodging the swift thrust that nearly tore his undershirt. Panting, the knight circled him with a clear intention to take a swipe at his chest, but the redhead didn't have time to feel fright, as a calm, masterful voice froze the scene on the sunny glade.

"Stop him, mother, or I shall do so myself."

Sephiroth looked frightening, one side of his shirt crimson, emerald eyes vividly burning on his deathly pale face. He stood in the doorway, heavily leaning on the handle of his flamboyant bastard sword, the tip of the enormous blade set against the ground, but Genesis could have sworn it wouldn't take him much effort to lift and bring it down with lightning speed, all his wounds notwithstanding. The guard halted, with vacillation shifting his gaze from Marguerite to Sephiroth, then back to Genesis who step by step neared his lover. Sephiroth was known for his reputations of a deadly swordfighter, and it seemed the knight knew. Eventually, the redhead thought, he would obey and that he did, having discarded the weapon and knelt although Marguerite hasn't uttered a single word during this silent combat.

"Messire."

"Go back to the castle, good man," only Genesis was seeing how hard it was for his lover to speak calmly as he was already tottering, searching for the wall to support himself, yet the man bowed and disappeared in the thicket before strength has left him whereupon, having let go of the bastard sword, Sephiroth leaned on his shoulder.

"Help me get to bed."

There was a strained smile on thin lips, and Genesis felt the whole weight of his lover's body in his arms. How foolish it was of Sephiroth to jump to his protection so recklessly. The thought was, however, leniently warm more than annoying, together with unwonted limp heaviness creating a blissful sensation of being loved and trusted. Unlike his stepmother, Sephiroth was willing to confide his weakness in Genesis.

Having gently wrapped his arm around his wounded lover's slender waist, the redhead guided him to the narrow sordid bed stained with his blood. They didn't have anything better.

"You shouldn't have…"

"And let him kill you," the silver-haired knight objected weakly; Genesis felt body quivering in his arms and knees finally wobbling as he helped his lover settle on the bed. Arguing now wasn't the best idea, so the redhead simply watched Sephiroth helplessly throw his head back with a hiss. "Bring me some water, please."

He drunk avidly, as though having spent two days in the desert, and put the wooden mug away only when it was empty. Sephiroth was hurting; it was obvious in the way his long fingers from time to absently clenched his shirt or sharp breaths escaped his thin lips and his chest heaved unevenly, yet he didn't utter a single word of complaint. It stung more than if Sephiroth complained instead of holding that pain inside. The knight had too much pride and dignity, too much for his own good.

A commotion outside interrupted his contemplation, reminding Genesis of Marguerite he, engrossed in worry for his lover, so carelessly forgot about.

"What shall we do about your stepmother?"

Sephiroth attempted a shrug, disrupted by a long hiss, and finally his eyes closed, yet not before a faint whisper passed his lips, "I don't know."

Genesis touched his lover's wrist, making sure that he just fainted from weakness and fatigue, before exiting the hut.

He had much to deal with.

* * *

To Marguerite it seemed the night was staring at her though the small window with calmness and compassion of Jesus. She fancied she heard his soothing voice in gentle gusts of wind, in twittering of birds in the thicket, in last chirr of cicadas.

Marguerite lay in her wagon, motionless for hours, and only long fingers twitched from time to time. Her chest ached, as though truly ripped open, and breaths passed her lips in broken sobs, albeit cheeks were dry.

After all tears were shed, hollow engulfed her.

She had killed an innocent girl; she had paid Lorenzo to kill her own husband, all for nothing because Sephiroth didn't love her. Sephiroth loved a man. It felt, as though the whole world _knew _about this shame of hers, as though if she appeared in the city, everyone would point to her, screaming, 'This is the mother, whose son succumbed to the temptations of sodomy'.

The burden was almost too much to bear, and in-between nothingness scraps of thoughts flashed, so harshly vivid and poignant. The one particular image of Sephiroth's slender body bending over her lifeless corpse, silent tears streaming down his marble face and a harrowing cry escaping his thin lips, was strangely alluring

She needed to get drunk, to drown everything in waves of crimson poison, to forget.

Having struggled out of the wagon and nearly fallen flat, Marguerite plodded towards the hut. The glade was lit with silvery moonlight, thin rays dancing on the heaving green grass, and the forest behind her was filled with sounds of life, the hooting of owls, the snapping of twigs, the wind's whisper in the tree crowns.

Inside she bled, until she nearly withered.

Alber sat by the threshold, vigilant as always when it came to his master's safety. The youth changed as well. Marguerite remembered a cheerful laughing kid, but the person, who appeared before her eyes, was no longer a child. Her stepson's squire wasn't humming his usual ditties or writing the love poems to his brief youth's passions; his face pale and thoughtful, Alber sat on the ground motionless, casting his eyes up only when seeing her approaching.

Then she wondered if he knew of Sephiroth's sin.

"Milady," nevertheless, Alber rose and bowed politely, having remained standing aloof even as she dismissed him.

"I wondered if you had wine. I," she added to hastily, yet the youth didn't notice, "I've cut myself."

"I am sorry, milady. All is gone by now. We had to treat his wounds."

She obediently sighed, "Tell me how it was. How my husband fell and how my son was wounded."

After all, she wasn't going to fall asleep soon.

"Milord fought bravely and died with dignity." It used to sound so proudly in Alber's lips, but was an insipid shadow of his previous vigour now. "Messire Sephiroth tried to save him, yet it was too late, and then… then the Englishmen shot him down from the bows." Marguerite had to strain her ears to hear what Alber was saying, but when she did, a shudder ran through her body. "I shall never forget it, milady."

Having leaned against the doorway, she shot a glance at the moonlit glade, remembering Sephiroth's words spoke three years ago at the birthday celebration, words and his kiss she in turn will never forget.

_The serenity is almost unreal… mother…_

She could not imagine him being shot down from the bows. She did not wish to imagine. Marguerite shook her head to fend off a haunting thought, "Thank God he is alive."

The youth lowered his gaze, "I don't know about God, milady, but we certainly should be grateful to Genesis."

Genesis, always Genesis, whenever there was her stepson's name this Genesis inevitably followed. She already hated him, the thief of Sephiroth's heart!

"Genesis is a commoner and his relationships with my son are an abomination, Alber!"

"It is not my right to judge messire. I trust him; I trust he knows what he is doing." The youth whispered quietly, yet with resolve, and Marguerite understood that against that devil's spawn, who stole her son's heart, he would not be an ally.

"But think of God's punishment…"

"The ways of God are inscrutable. I shall serve Him with all my little powers, yet I shall not interfere in His will for messire, milady."

Marguerite weakly nodded, and stepped over the threshold of the hut.

It was dark inside, and both lovers were sleeping. She could hear her stepson's slightly laboured breath. Having neared his bed, whereat he, thank God, slept alone, Marguerite peered into his pale placid face, as though begging him to open his eyes and say something, however, time slipped by, and she could not find strength to wake him up.

Once she held a morning star in her hands, but Lucifer was also once called a morning star. Who was Sephiroth now? What became of him?

Having bent over her profoundly sleeping stepson, she wept anew.

* * *

"Ah, what a wonderful morning! The whole family has finally gathered under one roof," Genesis proclaimed, stretching himself and as though inadvertently baring a lavish curve of smooth chiselled torso in a graceful move.

What a fine time his lover found to play jester.

Marguerite flinched and withdrew her reddened from tears eyes, finding an unremarkable spot to stare at blindly.

Sephiroth felt a prick of pity for his stepmother. It had to be hard for her, but she'd accept his choice, likely, more eagerly if he finally forgave Joan's death.

"You are not a part of my family!"

She was still harbouring and nourishing whatever last shreds of hope he'd reconsider. It was true that his love for a man was a disgrace in this society, but if the only people in the caste who knew were her and loyal Alber, his honor and reputation would be safe.

The mocking, "Am I not?" was followed by another of Genesis' flowing movements, as he casually wrapped his arms around Sephiroth's shoulders, climbing on the bed behind the knight. The reddened glassy eyes dashed towards the lovers, then immediately hid in the layers of black cloth, as his stepmother feebly declined her head on her chest.

She felt shame. He didn't.

"Merciful Father, protect us from devil's temptations and deliver us from chains of darkness, Heavenly Lord…"

Genesis' merciless gibe grated on ears, "Why are you always calling for _Him_? He's not going to answer, you know."

"God, forgive this child his vanity and terrible sin. He knows not what he speaks of."

Sephiroth felt how his lover strained behind him, yet instead of the expected outbreak of anger, there was just a light smirk on lush lips as strong arms wrapped around his shoulder tighter, in a lazy, more possessive manner.

"How magnanimous it is of you to worry about my faith, milady." One palm slipped underneath his collar, the stroke as smooth as the ironic flow of his lover's words.

"Genesis," Sephiroth rebuked quietly. Marguerite arrogantly tossed her chin, eyes again filling with tears.

"No, let him humiliate your mother. Let him deride and disparage me as many times as he wants. Nothing he'd say will overwhelm me more than your treachery, my beloved son."

With the chill air he seemed to have inhaled a sharp bolt of pain that shot through his healing wound in the back. Their eyes met, and Marguerite couldn't sustain his straightforward gaze.

"Don't make it worse, mother."

She damned him yesterday, whether truly feeling it or in an outburst of righteous anger, he did not know. Moreover, he did not wish to know.

"Worse? You've already made it worse than…"

Sephiroth interrupted her with a tired gesture, "Are you going to banish me? Try to bereave me of my title? While I have no right to lay claim on Chateau de Thil, I'm not giving up lands, gifted by my dead father, without a fight. Is it what you want? A blood feud after we had just lost a war?"

Marguerite lowered her eyes again, "No, no, my dearest, I just want you to reconsider…"

"I am not going to. Wherever I go, Genesis goes with me."

"You are insane!"

Behind his back the redhead uttered a laugh, "How easy of you to call anything you don't understand _madness_. But, maybe, we are mad, darling, like doomed wanderers, whose souls know no rest." The replica ended with a light kiss on his jawline underneath the earlobe; then Genesis' lips clung hungrier, slipping along the elegant crook of Sephiroth's neck. Usually Genesis wasn't that affectionate, and Sephiroth started to suspect it was overstated just for his stepmother. Those two won't get along well, if ever, especially since no one was willing to try. For his stepmother it was a reasonable choice, however, some women could not be reasonable. Likely, that was why he never understood them.

Marguerite wasn't looking at them, absently twiddling with the black cloth, not lifting her gaze even when he resolutely announced, "I am going back to the castle. Whoever is still… loyal to me is welcome to join."

Genesis' hand squeezing his was a good enough answer; the viscount knew his squire would follow him, too, and as for Marguerite, her obedient quiescence was a good sign she accepted.

Sephiroth sighed, keeping it inaudible. "Alber."

"Yes, messire." The youth, still pale and tired, slipped through the door at once.

"We are heading back… home. Gather my armour and sword. We'll take my mother's wagon."

Their preparations didn't take long. It was true he was too weak to stick on a horse for too long, but his stepmother's wagon was comfortable enough to travel.

They set out in nearly deathly silence, he, Genesis, Alber, Marguerite and her maiden; the strange ugly peasant, who kept making dance movements from time to time, joined them by his stepmother's whim, and he was unwilling to argue about that. She could have it her way, as long as she was silent about him and Genesis.

Once the hut and the glade, bestrewn with red and yellow fallen leaves, was lost from sight, Sephiroth reclined his head onto his lover's shoulder, finally feeling his head was clear enough to gather his thoughts and grave thoughts those were.

He always knew his role and place, always felt he was unique and proud of being such. His existence was indeed special, inasmuch as he always knew his powers, his limits and his abilities to shape the future anew. His lot of the French King's bastard elevated him above many powerful nobles who could only dream of such connection to the French court. Yet what happened at Crecy made him question who and what he was, and those questions never begot answers, only led to more dangerous questions that bereaved him of peace within himself and with himself.

He was not like everyone else, he did not want to blend in and become nothing but another fading memory.

Sephiroth sighed. He was tired. Something somehow needed to change, and he would not set at rest until it did.

What and how was another missing piece of his conundrum.

* * *

…They arrived at Amiens in the evening. Sephiroth was feeling worse, and of all journey only scraps of memories remained. He was seeing infinite oceans of golden wheat, rippled by gentle gusts of wind, which blended into scraps of cerulean skies, and dark tree trunks, reclining over the lakes and marshes. When his eyes peered into the depths of the covered wagon, he was seeing a pale spot looming in blackness. Maybe, he even raved, when having fallen into the blackness of oblivion, was seeing his army's demise all over again, the images alternating with those of his dying stepfather.

At one point, Genesis tried to read from the book Kathy brought with her to variegate the morose atmosphere, which like a veil hung around them, clinging to every moment they spent together. At first Sephiroth listened, yet soon the sounds of his lover's beautiful voice blended into monotonous series of incoherent sounds. Marguerite, lifeless and torpid, didn't even lift her head, remaining hunched up with grief in the corner, likely, praying. Kathy's son began crying, yet soon fell asleep as well.

Hours after hours passed by in grave silence disturbed only by the creaking of wheels, the quiescence broken by the wobbling of their wagon; it was a torture, for acute pain in his half-healed wounds followed each movement, so when they finally arrived at the settlement, Sephiroth felt immense relief.

The guard at the gate was at first reluctant to let them through, which with all the recent misfortunes that befell the small city it was not surprising, and it took his name together with a silver coin to go pass the gate. The knight couldn't allow himself to rest in the wagon, or he'd never heal without a decent meal and a comfortable bed. Likely, their new coachman, a peasant who responded to the name Loki, the Norse god of mischief and destruction, didn't fill the guards with liking and trust towards the vagrant circus, as Genesis called them during one of their quiet conversations. Sephiroth had to agree. After all, who else could they, a wounded knight and his squire, a fake monk, a grieving widow with her maiden, a little child, and finally an ugly bloke on the trestle of their wagon, possibly resemble?

However, Sephiroth ceased to want laughing when the wagon halted by the inn, and he had to move.

Suppressing a moan, which nearly passed his lips when he set foot on land, the viscount slowly limped towards the entrance, wincing every time pain followed his steps. The village looked lifeless, no people bustling on the dark streets, no glimpse of torches moving in the night. It was unusually quiet as well, supplementing the impressions the whole world went still, and the wind wafted acrid smell of dead flesh. Someone must have been recently executed outside the small city.

Having leant on the door's leaf, Sephiroth shot a glance back to see whether Genesis followed.

"Order a meal for four. Alber has all my gold."

The redhead nodded and disappeared in the scanty lit room together with his squire.

With Kathy being fed with the bloke at the stables, Sephiroth got his stepmother to himself for the first time since she had found out about his affair with Genesis.

He feared an outbreak of anger, yet she remained silent and dispirited as they slowly settled around a big round table in the corner of the room. In her black dress she was ruefully frail and pale, her face tinged with yellow shadows from the candle light, and the knight's heart once again wrung with pity. She wasn't supposed to know; his secrecy wasn't unfounded, for he didn't wish to hurt her feelings more than he already has, being unable to return them. The knight never showed he could or was willing to in the first place. The scene at the Duke's of Burgundy castle was long since effaced from Sephiroth's memory, as were others like them.

Marguerite, however, spoke first.

"Do you remember, when we were little, you found me crying in the King's garden with a rose thorn in my palm. I tried to pick a huge scarlet flower from His Majesty's favourite bush, but I didn't know that beauty hurt. You comforted me, wiped my tears, and drew it out. How old were we then?"

"You were eleven, and I was six," Sephiroth replied without a moment's hesitation.

"You remembered." His stepmother pressed her slender palm to her chest, and whispered. "Love is like thorns, only here."

Sephiroth couldn't find a better answer, besides an equally quiet one, "Did you love him at all?"

"Who?"

"My father." Marguerite paled, looking slightly ashamed.

"He was a good man, and at times I thought I did. Alfonso made sure he got a decent burial. Haven't you seen him at all?" She ably changed the subject, and Sephiroth decided against insisting. After all, she is, likely, hurt, for even without love she got used to his father during twenty years of marriage.

"Alfonso? No, I haven't. Why?"

"I sent him after you. I am sorry, I should have come sooner, dearest. I am so sorry."

His head was getting heavy from fatigue and constant pain. He could not think clearly. Having propped it against his palms, Sephiroth gently objected, "You shouldn't be. Genesis took good care of me."

He realized his mistake when Marguerite's eyes hazed with tears, flashing in wan candle light.

"Ah, that ignominy of my family. Canst though not talk about him?"

"I've heard my name mentioned. I guess, I came back on time." Genesis gracefully skirted a couple of tables, Alber following the redhead right behind with a huge tray of hot food. "The innkeeper was generous enough to heat up some wine… well, for a certain extra payment."

Before Sephiroth could stop him, his lover bent over the table and tenderly kissed him on the lips. Seeing this, Marguerite leapt up to her feet, having screamed, "I am not sitting at one table with him!" and disappeared in the whirl of rustling black skirts.

Sephiroth turned to Genesis with irritation openly displayed on his face, "Are you content now?"

Genesis snorted, picking up a piece of roast veal from the tray and slowly licking his fingers after swallowing it. Alber shifted his gaze from him to his lover, not daring to say a word.

The rest of the meal went by in deathly silence.

* * *

"Seph." There was no answer. "Sephiroth."

"Um?"

Already unclothed, Genesis slipped underneath the woollen blanket, having wrapped it around himself and the knight. "Are you sleeping?"

"Obviously, not any longer."

Propping himself on the elbow, the redhead suggestively slid his hand into the shorter tresses that framed his lover's sculptured face to bring their lips together, "I missed you."

The curt mocking chuckle didn't keep him waiting, "I am still hurting, Genesis."

"I'll make it delightful, and you won't have to move," he promised, mirroring a smirk on thin lips, to receive a defeated sigh as an answer.

"Do you honestly think it'll work?"

"You'll never know without trying." Having bated his breath, Genesis gently slipped his lover's pants along his thighs, careful around the recent injury. With bright emerald eyes dimmed from slumber Sephiroth was watching him, and it provoked another smirk. "Just sit like this. Perfect." He concluded after the knight raised himself into a half-sitting position, having reclined on the headboard.

Sephiroth slid his index finger underneath the redhead's chin, lifting his head while slowly stroking the finely moulded chin, "There must be something special in you if I agreed to your _persuasions_."

Genesis impatiently wriggled in his spot, tempted just by the teasing sound of the knight's deep voice, the one he hasn't heard for a while.

"Let me think what that would be. My undeniable charm? My unequalled beauty? My imagination and keenness of wit?"

Certainly, Sephiroth fell abreast of him, remarking with a derisive glint in deep emerald eyes, "It definitely is your _imagination_, Genesis."

With a faint chuckle the redhead put both of his palms on his lover's chest, slowly stroked the smooth skin around dark humps, then moved to the shoulders, massaging them until he could not longer feel strain. His lover's emerald eyes closed, and a faint lenient smile appeared on thin lips.

The skin underneath his palms was pale and smooth, yet the wounds will leave scars, like stigmas marking him and his fall. If Genesis was hearing what he thought he was, the fate awaiting them would hardly be easy.

All the more reasons there were to enjoy peace while they still can.

Genesis put both of his fingers in his mouth, licked them and countered the sensitive nipples, rubbing them until they became hard. He was determined to get at every inch of his lover's body, to make it scream from pleasure, until Sephiroth gushed, and only then bring him a desired release.

Having thrown his leg over his lover's loin, Genesis snuggled up to feel Sephiroth's lips, dry and parted in a delightful fit of passion that possessed him, joining with his, letting his power and ardour unfold. He didn't stop there, smothering the knight's neck and chest with biting kisses, moving down until his tongue slipped into the shallow deepening of his lover's abdomen. By the time he was done with teasing, Sephiroth's breath quickening, and the redhead smirked into the deep kiss, sinking until he could feel a hard hump presses against his back. Silver-tinged eyes clouded with mist of pleasure none of them could forget.

Genesis loved power. Genesis thrived on power.

Thereat Sephiroth's nimble fingers dived into the dishevelled mass of auburn hair, threw his head back into the cupped palms, and he, having snatched at the long silver tresses with forces, heaved his hips and gently lowered himself until he could feel Sephiroth inside him and pain their unity begot.

Genesis wanted to feel pain, poignant and cleansing, like forgiveness he has never truly asked. They uttered a moan simultaneously as Sephiroth's thighs jerked up, pain cutting through his core, and his teeth sank into his lower plusher lip.

"You're not moving, remember?"

The words were forced out of his constricted throat while, having closed his eyes, Genesis raised a little, knees pressed into the rough bed. The grip of his lover's hands, now firmly settled on his waist, tightened, the gentle arch of his neck deepened, and the redhead sank back.

Bliss was seeping through pain, quivers of his lover's body and acute moans his movements wrung sending waves of pleasure through him, shaper, sweeter, stronger as his hips rose and fell faster, up and down, endlessly.

There were no rights or wrongs, no past and present, just blissful rhythm, up and down, senselessly.

Genesis had to seek support, wrapping his arms around his lover's shoulders, and the debilitating dance swallowed him all. He did not feel whether his lover's thighs moved, not even as something hot flowed down his skin. He wanted to remember, to relish the sensation he never forgot, to give, to receive, to be fulfilled, completed, lost.

Faster.

Stronger.

With untrammelled power.

The final shudders ran through his body with a scream, twofold he could have sworn, and the deliverance left him limp and weak, his face buried on his lover's frequently heaving chest, Sephiroth's head resting on his shoulders and his quickened breath cooling his damp back. Only now the redhead felt a hot streamlet tickling his thighs, and it wasn't from love they've just made.

It was blood. Sephiroth's blood.

One of his wounds must have opened up a bit, all his noble intentions to be gentle notwithstanding.

"I am sorry, Seph," he whispered into the crook of the knight's slender neck.

"Don't be." His lover wiped it, and then his hand helplessly fell onto the bed, dark blood slowly running along his fingers and dripping onto the floor. He was still too weak, and Genesis was selfish. "Pain is a weakness I've been taught to handle since early childhood years during hours of training."

The redhead took his other, uninjured hand and interlaced their fingers.

"I hate seeing you hurt."

There was a pause before the knight spoke again, quietly, yet with more harshness in that velvety voice than he remembered, "I deserved it. Human creatures are weak, and I was feeble as well."

"What do you mean?"

Genesis raised his head to look into his lover's eyes, however, finding them closed, shielded.

"Weakness doesn't necessarily have to be physical or mental, as lack of will. Failure to act, procrastination is a weakness no less calamitous than any other. I know I could have done something about the demise of my army."

"You're speaking in riddles."

The knight did not answer, leaving Genesis guessing with indignation whether Sephiroth still distrusted him after that treason. Having kissed his lover on the forehead, the redhead hastily slipped into some of his clothing and waited until Sephiroth relaxed and fell asleep which didn't take much time.

When he opened the window, a gust of fresh air dishevelled his auburn hair and cooled his flushed skin. The street underneath him was dark and empty.

What did his lover mean?

If _words_ he heard passing Sephiroth's lips in delirium weren't just ravings of a wounded knight, with enough time and effort on his part his silver-haired lover will fall with him.

Then the Light Bringer shall turn away from his people, and when blood shall overflow Avignon's streets, when the sword of Damocles shall crush its walls, the whole Europe, from the splendour of Constantinople to the shores of England, will shudder from the cruelty of his punishment.

Was it justice? Hardly.

But then who determined what was fair and what wasn't?

His palms, hidden in the deep pocket, began sweating, and when he retrieved the wooden sliver, it glistened in faint rays of the newborn moon.

His sanity. His weapon.

Veritas.

Truth.

His Truth.


	24. Chapter XXIII: Carmine and indigo

**_A/N:_** **_Short list of names, personalities, etc._**

_William of Ockham and the Ockham razor – _English philosopher and friar (1288-1348). His principle of the Ockham razor (or the law of succinctness) says that entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity. Basically, it states that that theory is the best which is the simplest in a way that to prove it the author makes the least amount of assumptions while still providing valid explanation for particular phenomena.

_Veritas vos liberabit (lat.)_ - The truth will set you free.

_The Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229)_ – the war against the Cathars and their allies inLanguedoc. Raymond VII of Saint-Gilles, the Count of Toulouse, defended Cathars and lost.

_Delubrum (lat.)_ – font, baptismal bowl.

* * *

**_Chapter XXIII._**

**_Carmine and indigo._**

"_Forget about likes and dislikes. They are of no consequence. Just do what must be done. This may not be happiness but it is greatness." (Bernard Shaw)._

The colour Sephiroth was seeing through the narrow window was the strangest one he's ever seen, a mixture of carmine and indigo, like fine linen thrown over the sunset skies. One corner of the welkin was quivering in time with the wagon's wobbling. The silver-haired knight looked at it for the last time and shifted his gaze to Genesis' arms casually wrapped around his waist, a smooth wooden sliver flickering between long fingers.

During last two days he's been feeling a lot better; the wounds have finally closed, and now they travelled during night and day until the horses were too tired to move. Sephiroth had to get to the castle Thil, as though within its walls he hoped to find answers and resolve to make a decision he still lacked.

The colour in the corner of his eye was beautiful, its nocturnal depth and mystery very much like the unusually low, vibrating with triumphant tinge voice coming from behind. Genesis was speaking.

"… Truth is one of the greatest weapons known. However, without this," the redhead's fingers ghosted over the flamboyant part of his bastard sword, "it is but a sliver on the palm. It took me time to understand why one man, possessing it or proclaiming himself in possession of it, still could not change much, remaining what he should be, a speck of dust, a Democritus' atom if you so wish. Do you know why, Sephiroth?"

That was spoken to him in a more hushed tone, not that the knight thought anyone besides him was listening. Marguerite sat with her face buried in her palms, black sleeves as waterfall cascading over her chest, and her maiden was sleeping.

He shrugged, "I can guess. Men rarely care. But," the viscount added with the lightest smirk, "I am a knight, not a philosopher."

"Partially you are right. There is, however, another depth to it called faith. The irony is that you can climb the highest bell tower of the Notre Dame, shout the Truth to the whole world, and none will listen because they believe differently, and typical faith needs no reason. Like light and darkness, these two are begotten from the opposite beginnings. Let me give you a good example with geocentricism."

"What about it?"

"Ah, see, you believe that planets are revolving around the Earth, am I right?" He nodded, unsure where Genesis was getting at. "But the truth is that the Sun is the centre of our planetary system."

Sephiroth hemmed with mocking disbelief, "And who would be the author of that _progressive_ point of view? You? I wouldn't be surprised."

Genesis reached out from behind, and lazily wound a shorter silver lock round his finger. His whisper was more content than gibing, "You bestow me with too much honour, darling, which I wouldn't mind should I deserve it. In this case, however, those theories belong to Aristarchus and Archimedes, and they have sufficient proof I will retell you later if you are in the mood. Mind you, unlike the Christian hypothesis of geocentricism that is unfounded at best, aside from the firm _belief_ that God created our Earth to be the centre of everything. That point of view has no proof, nor does it need any effort from your part to accept it."

"I see," Sephiroth concluded curtly; once again his lover contrived to surprise him with the depth of his knowledge. Geocentricism or heliocentricism, he hadn't given either much thought, otherwise Genesis wouldn't have won their argument that easily. 'You are implying that faith is the easier answer."

The redhead rewarded him with a kiss, continuing with a triumphant smile thereafter, "Finally I found someone who can understand. As water, we often follow the easiest path. Thereat I understood that proving my point is useless, while manipulating by faith will give me all the results I needed. Having reached that conclusion and after separating reason and faith, I followed Peter Abelard's path to question numerous discrepancies in the Bible, and while the philosopher used his logic to explain them, I cut his arguments with the Ockham's razor. My theory was both powerful and plausible enough to explain holes in the Biblical myth without making too many assumptions and multiplying entities."

Sephiroth threw his head back onto his lover's shoulder to watch rays of the setting sun play in the auburn hair that framed a beautifully chiselled profile.

"Let me guess. You say that God doesn't exist." His statement provoked an unexpected, yet unmistakably genuine umbrage.

"Hardly. Unlike you, I never doubted Creator's existence; however, His image has nothing to do with that of the Christian God in the Bible. I doubt He'd ever want a monument of _religion_ to be erected in his name." Genesis' face turned placid and dreamy, and Sephiroth got an impression his lover was speaking to the hollow. "He is a mystery of a kind theMotherChurch shall never explain with her trite dogmas and pathetic rituals. Can you imagine someone as omniscient and wise as God caring about the way we bow before Him? Or caring about being worshiped in the first place? The Bible was created by us to seek power and control, to manipulate the dark mass and bring nations to their knees."

The knight apprehended his lover's words calmly, unlike his stepmother, who suddenly sat up and, having taken her hands away from her face, exclaimed, "What madness has gotten into you, Sephiroth? Thou bringeth a heretic to our home! Dost thou want us to share the Raymond's of Saint-Gilles lot?"

She meant the meddling of the Holy Inquisition, he knew. That redoubtable name used to arouse fear in him, the Order's seemingly unquestionable omnipotence and omnipresence overwhelming, yet with time Sephiroth came to a conclusion that, like everything human, it was flawed. They didn't possess divine powers to hear or see hidden heresies, and, besides, he disliked being threatened by anything. The previous Sephiroth would have dismissed his mother's words with a shrug, yet this Sephiroth, Sephiroth, who survived the fiery _delubrum_ ofCrecy, coldly traversed, "If they dare to besiege Chateau de Thil, we shall fight, mother."

All blood seemed to have flooded back from Marguerite's face, "Heavenly Lord, my child has gone mad. I still hoped he had some wits left, but I have to admit to myself that the strain of battle has drowned his voice of reason. You'll ruin us all!"

"You can always save yourself by genuine repentance, milady," the redhead mocked his mother, as he was lately accustomed to, however, having lapsed into silence when Sephiroth gently stroked the smooth cheek with the back of his palm.

"Hush, Genesis…"

His quiet whisper drowned in the angry yell, "You have ruined my son, renegade! Your sweet venom poisoned his mind, and now he listens and obeys your devilish whims."

"Does she honestly believe that?" Sephiroth affirmatively hemmed, engrossed in marvelling his lover's features by slowly outlining the contours of the sculptured jawline with the tip of his index finger.

"Faith is the easy, comfortable answer to all questions. You said so yourself."

Genesis chuckled, pristine sapphires vividly sparkling between the dark fringe of his lashes, and a blissful smile, the one his lover deserved after all, the one he always adored seeing, bloomed on his lush cerise lips, "Defeated with my own weapon I am, yet if your hand hath wielded it, I would not mind."

Marguerite interrupted the quiet moment that meant much more to them both than ever expressed in words, having morosely threatened, "You both laugh at faith, at God, but the punishment shall come, and sooner than you think you shall taste His wrath. Your madness is the beginning of it," to which Genesis simply laughed yet again, lightly, joyously, having haughtily thrown his head back in a waterfall of inflamed auburn hair that poured over his face. Sephiroth loved the smell of its tresses.

"Do I look like a madman, milady, with slime trickling down my chin? Can I not think clearly? How about a naïve faith of a dreamer, who cannot find rest until the world is changed? Whose only fault is that he hath seen the dawn before anyone else did?"

"Satan possesses your soul," his mother weakly croaked, "and he is not letting you go until you shall burn in the nethermost fires."

"Just like Lilith," there was a great share of rueful doom in the redhead's voice among other undertones, as azure eyes dimmed with thought anew, and Sephiroth again had that impression Genesis wasn't herein, in the wobbling wagon, holding him in his arms.

"I did not know you were a dreamer and an idealist, Genesis."

His lover seemed to have awoken with the sound of his voice, looking slightly bewildered and confused, and, he could have sworn, cut to the heart. "Me? Who said I was talking about myself? Unlike you, I am not doing anything for others. I am doing it all for myself, for selfish narcissist myself." Then his mood changed, the delusion vanished, like haze in the vehement gust of wind, and and the redhead finished with a melodic, almost flippant remark, "Do not fight truth, my friend and my beloved. Veritas vos liberabit."

The wooden sliver fell upon his chest, having slid to the side and fallen onto the swaying floor. Now it was his turn to look confused, and Sephiroth was about to ask what riddles the redhead was speaking in when the wagon suddenly stopped with a jerk. The wrangle was heard shortly afterwards as his squire was trying to explain something, yet Alber's attempts were soon interrupted by the unforgettable burr of the peasant.

"Me escort good milady and milord to the castle."

"A bloke like you?" A crude guffaw rang loudly, drowning the hasty mumblings of an ugly yokel, and then it was joined by the unforgettable clang of steel. There were weapons being drawn outside the wagon. With a deep frown Sephiroth reached out for the door and slid it open. A gentle gust of fresh wind slipped through the slit followed by the blinding light of numerous torches that hungrily engulfed the night. If he counted correctly, there were more than two dozens of horsemen gathered around their wagon, weapons drawn, for the scarlet sheens chaotically danced along the glistening steel.

The color of the welkin was a deep, blackening indigo.

Sephiroth involuntarily groped for the handle of his bastard sword, yet those measures proved to be unnecessary as a tall leader suddenly alighted, having bowed with respect.

"I am sorry, we didn't expect to see you, messire. With all the troubles in the lands lately one cannot be too careful."

"Apologies accepted," his silver eyebrows arched, questioning silently.

"Sir Clement de Maut at your service, messire."

"I hope you would not object escorting us to the nearby settlement, Sir Clement."

The knight looked down, "I apologize, messire, but we were called to aid Chatillon. It appears the detachment of those Genovese scumbags rebelled and torched the village."

Sephiroth strained his memory, having soon remembered where he had heard that name before. Chatillon was one of the settlements they passed on their way toCrecy; in a day they will, likely, reach Chateau de Thil. The decision was sudden, yet Sephiroth precisely knew why he had chosen so.

"I shall aid you."

"Thank you, messire."

"You are not going anywhere, Sephiroth." That was Genesis' angry whisper as the knight leaned back into his embrace to pick up the breastplate. "I am not letting you waste your life for something so trifling."

The knight ignored that, having slipped out of the wagon with the piece of armour and a flamboyant bastard sword in his hand. The last words he heard before the door closed were Marguerite's pitiful, "If he has already decided, you can't stop him."

Sephiroth wasted no time to ask Alber for help, having slipped into the breastplate and mounted, pain in his old wounds notwithstanding. He was already healthy enough to stick on a horse and fight, but mostly his meddling will be of a different sort. Alongside Sir Clement the knight urged his horse to the head of a small detachment that turned towards the serpentine of the river barely visible in darkness. On the other side a spark of burning Chatillon was seen, hardly any larger than another star waking on the vast blackness of the velvety skies. A knight to his right held the torch to illumine the way, and the road quivered in the red light cast by it, letting him see even small stones and dirt spurting out from underneath the hooves.

The first detachment of the Genovese they encountered was trying to escape alongLoirewith a wagon loaded with supplies. Before they had time to ready the crossbows, the mounted horsemen came flying towards them, weapons bared and shields raised. Two or three knights skirted the scene with torches, so that the skirmish would not drown in darkness and give the enemy any advantage or chance to escape. Sephiroth had to lift his bastard sword only once, having swept past a man, whose face he did not see, yet whose life he shortened with a precise thrust. The night indifferently swallowed the gurgling sounds of his agony.

Having halted by the wagon, he dismounted, stepped over the body of another unlucky Genovese, to be met by Sir Clement, who was slowly wiping his longsword with a piece of cloth.

"Good battle, messire," the knight grinned, gesturing towards his unharmed detachment and scattered bodies of the mercenaries chosen to be scapegoats for the King's defeat. Sephiroth wondered if Sir Clement fought atCrecy, yet decided against his past, and however shameful and flawed it was, it had to be left behind for the greater things to come.

The past could not hinder future, or his life would become a morass that shall swallow and choke him no less painfully than a rope tightly coiled around his neck.

"Good battle," Sephiroth echoed quietly, thinking how many more of these unlucky Genovese would die by the end of night and feeling slight pity for them. Such pity was familiar to any commander who at least once has been trapped in circumstances, which periled his life and lives of his soldiers. Finally, having shaken the thoughtful numbness, he ordered, "Take any large vessels you see, and help the villagers battle the flames, while I shall finish off the remains of the Genovese."

Sir Clement nodded and vanished in torch-lit night.

Before mounting the steed he borrowed after his jet-black stallion disappeared in the mayhem of slaughter atCrecy, Sephiroth made sure that the supplies, which were stolen from the starving villagers, were intact.

Having been built on the river bank, Chatillon was luckier than its likes that shared the same lot during the war. With the knights' aid, the villagers were able to fight most of the flames off. The eastern side, the one furthest from the river, suffered the most damage, and looking at the lone frames of women with children clutching their skirts, at haggard faces, soiled in black ash, Sephiroth no longer felt pity for the slain Genovese.

The steed under him danced with impatience, and it took effort to calm down the refractory animal which was not used to battles. The acrid smoke clouded the night sky, and the viscount could no longer see stars. Although he had no memories of the battlefield atCrecyafter he had fallen, the village reminded him of it and of many other slaughters he had taken his part in. The faint wailing, the smell of death, the touch of doom and poverty never changed wherever the fickle fate had brought him.

"Thank you, messire," Sir Clement silently approached, "we will be able to finish the rest alone."

Sephiroth glanced over the sight of fire for the last time. He was proud of his people, who were strong and stubborn, who will rebuild and hold out against any calamities; the flaw was not within them, and he will eradicate it with cruelty if need be.

"Farewell, Sir Clement."

The knight smiled, "If you ever need something, I shall do my best to aid you, messire."

Sephiroth curtly nodded and turned his horse towards the wagon, despite the short stab of pain thinking that, perhaps, he has just placed a first cornerstone of an army that will be loyal to him only, an army that will bring him victory whereat only defeat heretofore awaited, and an army that will make him a French King.

* * *

The water in the bathtub was already tepid, small droplets slowly dripping from Sephiroth's long fingers, and he absently followed them with his emerald eyes until nothing but endless circles on the clear surface remained. They reminded him of something, likely, of the words Genesis had spoken to him once, but the haze in his memory was too thick to see through. It was just a phrase, a meaningless set of words as gentle fingers playing on the strings of his soul's harp, leaving strange ennui.

He could always see greater things, those only he could set in motion, and what if...

_Ripples form on the water's surface..._

What if the meaning behind it was a reflection of the design more grand than he could have ever imagined, and the water's surface was to become the very surface he stepped on, he battled on, made mistakes and atoned for them.

France.

Sephiroth rose abruptly, shaking the water off his body and wringing it from his long silver hair. Having stepped over the wooden edge, he quickly dabbed the moisture with a towel and threw a long indigo cloak over his shoulders. Bare feet touched the wet marble floor, and the knight unnoticeably shivered from the cold.

Indigo. The color meant nothing; it remained a sign without an augury, a mix of blue and carmine. War and peace.

A war with himself. A war against the whole world. Was he ready?

After Sephiroth slipped through the door, it closed behind him with a gentle thud, and the usual draught caressed his wet cheek as though greeting him anew. He raised his head, having strained his senses to imbibe every sound, every smell, every fleeting feeling.

"Welcome back, messire," with a deep bow a servant slipped past him and into the room he has just left to clean the bathtub and dry the floor. Sephiroth answered with a curt nod.

It felt good to be home.

Chateau de Thil met them with a cheerful ebullience and proper solemnity, meant to greet its new rightful master. Before Marguerite's son would take over his father's estate, Sephiroth was to become the regent as the only family member of the proper age who was still alive. If he died, his place would be claimed by Marguerite. His father's faithful vassals, at least those who had returned from the devastating defeat atCrecy, have obediently accepted his new role, as well as Genesis' appearance as his personal confessor. Sephiroth made sure that the only rumour surrounding him and father Rhapsodos, as his lover had to be spoken to from now on, was how the redhead had saved his life.

There was a small family feast arranged for the late evening on the morrow, and the viscount was slightly worried how it may go with the recent revelations between him and Marguerite. His stepmother seemed to have accepted his decision, but he had no time to trouble himself on her behalf. This will be the only week the viscount will let himself rest, and thereafter the preparations shall begin at once. His brilliant strategic mind always thirsted to be put to work, and now dozens of scenarios, one worse than another, were playing in front of his eyes, yet he welcomed and embraced them, as they were no longer a black hollow of a decision he lacked.

Yesterday he finally accepted it.

Sephiroth picked up speed, having rushed by the frozen sentries as an indigo lightning in a flutter of cloth repeating his movements.

He shall claim the French throne, all consequences, all violence his acts were fraught with notwithstanding. It was a lesser evil between the two, which was to leave his country in the hands of an arrogant fool.

It was his duty. It was his wounded pride. It was his search of himself, of who he was begotten to be, destined to rise, a simple child, conceived in the womb of a peasant mother to become a God's vicar.

Greater.

Higher.

Better.

The heavy door to the bedchambers yielded to his onrush, letting a silver-indigo lightning through the wide chink. The movements of his slender body were perfected to a point of seeming nearly flowing to the eyes of a chance observer should there be anyone waiting for him in the room. It was, however, empty.

It was raining outside, heavy droplets of an early autumn shower pattering against the roof of Chateau de Thil, and the monotonous rhythm was emollient, bland, temporarily extinguishing the flames raging inside. The nobles treated him as nobody, as a puppet, a pawn in the scheme he was not supposed to grasp, but he did, for it was nothing but a foolish vagary of a King, who ruinedFrance.

The anger seething inside him was too strong to control, and for a moment it broke his icy defences in a curt flare. Having clenched a wooden mug, Sephiroth threw it into the fireplace, having raised a cloud of black ash.

What he swore to protect once, now he was determined to destroy.

Sephiroth ignored the residual pain in his almost healed wounds. It was of no consequences now. Having calmed down, the viscount took a seat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes, his desultory thoughts taking an abrupt direction.

It felt good to be home, no matter however foreign and unwelcome it might have seemed a long time ago.

* * *

Alber couldn't remember the girl's name. The youth kept looking at his sweetheart over the haycock they lay on, absently twiddling a long spiny straw in his fingers, and couldn't match a name with a face. Was she Greta? Or Rosalyn? He was too bashful to ask her again, not that he felt the need to. This was the last time he'd see her. He could no longer continue with his previous life, feeling torn away from it, like an apple from the apple tree in a withering orchard.

The moonlight gently played in her flaming red hair, reminding him of Genesis, of Sephiroth, of the kiss he witnessed, of the blood he spilled, leaving the girl's name lost in the depths of his memory.

She must have understood.

"Do you not want to be with me anymore?"

He was never good at letting anyone go and, still idly playing with the straw, could only force a pitiful, "No."

The girl shifted closer, and the youth could see skin in the slit of her dress as well as tears in her dark-green eyes.

"You were always so nice to me. You used to sing songs and bring me flowers, unlike all others who just did... everything and left."

Alber felt he would cry with her, but the war taught him cruelty, and for such a trifling reason he could no longer shed tears. It felt like something has been torn out of his heart, and the hollow was put instead.

"I can't." What couldn't he? The explanation drowned in a gentle caress of the girl's fingers along his cheek, which he cut with a more desperate, "I can't!" and dashed out of the stables as though a legion of demons was chasing him.

He needed to find his master. That was the only thought Alber could comprehend in the maelstrom of many others. Sephiroth was the wisest man he knew. He always gave answers to the hardest questions, and this time the youth was sure he would help. However, as he kept asking around the castle, he had to accept that Sephiroth departed without him, which left only one other option.

Genesis.

Alber didn't know what feelings he had towards his master's lover, but they were not umbrage or aversion. It was a strange mixture of fright and willingness to accept him, but it could not be done unless someone answered his numerous poignant questions.

With that he headed for the bedchambers his liege gave to his redheaded lover first thing upon their arrival, and, having stopped by the door, knocked.

It opened when Alber lost hope it would, and Genesis flashed a bedazzling smile at him, which, however, faded the moment the redhead caught sight of the youth standing in the doorway.

"Ah, I was expecting Sephiroth," he drawled with disappointment, having measured the youth with shining azure eyes, and for some reasons that gaze sent chills down Alber's spine, the coldness instantly supplanted with heat of blush that crept up his cheeks as he realized that his master's lover was half-naked. He awaited Sephiroth for... for... "But," Genesis ignored his blush, disappearing in crimson-tinged semi-darkness, "do come in. I wasn't expecting him in another hour or so, and, maybe, thou shalt lay aside my utter tedium."

The youth bashfully stepped over the threshold, eyes fixed on the luxurious alcove in the depth of the bedroom, when Genesis reappeared again in a light undershirt casually thrown over the chiselled shoulders.

"Do have a seat," despite the offering, it seemed that piercing gaze was meant to root him to the spot by the door, leaving him awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, his throat suddenly dry while the redhead gracefully settled into the armchair, having sunk so deeply that only his faceless silhouette remained in sight. There were still eyes, glistening in semi-darkness, and the youth seemed to have been unable to find a spot where they would not see him.

"Don't just stand there like an ice pillar," a slightly exasperated note surfaced in the smooth flow of the redhead's voice, having finally helped him out of the strange numbness, and the youth limply fell into the nearby chair.

The sapphires of Genesis' eyes sparked devilishly, and, shivering, Alber barely suppressed a desire to cross himself. What did he think seeking an advice of a devil's spawn?

"How... how do you live with _that_ sin?" He hoped Genesis understood without having him to name it. The redhead did. There was a curt chuckle, followed by another shamelessly devilish glint in the cerulean eyes.

"What is sin?"

The question rendered Alber flabbergast. Sin was sin. There was so much about it in the Bible, yet for some reasons he could not come up with a better answer than a quiet, rather confused, "Everything evil is sin."

Genesis derisively scoffed, "_But the men of Sodom were wicked and sinners before the Lord exceedingly._ Is this why you came? To tell me something I had already known before you were born?"

"I..."

"A doing that the Bible and the Church condemn is sin. Evil is something else. Neither Roman, nor Greek religions begot the notion of sin, but their countries did not drown in mayhem for letting the _evil_ flourish."

"The Church teaches they were heretics and were punished for that."

Genesis drew forward, a lazy, yet clearly cold smirk frozen on his lush cerise lips, "Then why didn't you come to a priest for a shrift? I am not going to repeat some of the Church's banal truths."

Alber blushed, feeling miserable. He should have waited for Sephiroth. Why didn't he? His master would have never laughed at him.

"I was ashamed. I couldn't go to anyone but you or... or messire..." The youth forced ever so timidly. "I am sorry, sire."

"Good. Now, where did I stop? Sin... Why would you say that killing a person is sin?"

"We have no right to extinguish a spark that God has ignited." He replied without hesitation, as a good student who had memorised his lesson.

To the ironic, "What if that _God's spark_ is swinging a sword at you?" Alber did not know what to say, having waited until Genesis went on with his usual superiority. "Most sins are forbidden without any reason or that reason had long ago become obsolete, but those who created the notion of sin did not want us to question it, not then, not now. Morale, on the other hand, has perfectly understandable reasons as it is immoral to kill an innocent child or..." his voice hushed to a forced whisper, "or a woman." Genesis declined his head on his chest, and Alber did not dare to interrupt the pained silence until the redhead did so himself. "Sephiroth would have told you the same thing."

"So...you are saying that neither you, nor messire had done anything evil."

It rang as a hopeful suggestion rather than a question. All previous hurt gone, Genesis looked at him, amused mostly, and his slender hand froze half-way in the caress through the luxurious auburn hair. Alber could have sworn he had started to say something different, not the lenient, dismissive, "Ah, certainly."

He beamed. He was right. Genesis was as wise as his master. For some reasons this thought brought sudden peace, despite the sensation of inward incongruity he's been constantly feeling after the battle. There was something right in his master's choice all along.

There was a sound of steps coming from the hallway, and before the youth could come up with a grateful answer, Sephiroth slipped through the chink in the door. The knight was wearing a cloak of an indigo color with a deep hood thrown over his face, but discarded it the moment he entered, having been left in all white. Genesis rose to welcome him, and suddenly all Alber wanted to do was look away and hide, at the same time fighting a burning desire to actually peek at the lovers, for as everything forbidden it was attractive to the youth. What he failed to understand that they weren't doing it for the sake of nourishing the sensation of trespassing the boundary and defying the world. They were not young and naive any more.

"I was already leaving, messire."

The fleeting glance of emerald eyes barely brushed against his face, already dashing to meet Genesis', and he could have sworn a spark flared between them, bright as a newborn star.

"You may go, Alber."

With that the youth finally retreated to the safety of an empty hallway, through the door having heard the last, muffled, "You look tired and worried, Seph."

It provoked a foolish smile. Nobody has ever called his liege like Genesis did. Nobody has ever understood him the way only Genesis could.

Maybe, there was nothing wrong with his master, after all.

* * *

Genesis stirred in darkness, having turned to face his lover, "Why aren't you sleeping? It's late, or should I say, it's early morning."

"I can't," Sephiroth crossed his arms under his head, vacantly staring at the burgundy canopy as though trying to count the specks of moonlight.

"Are you afraid you'd see nightmares ofCrecy?"

"No, not that." He sat up abruptly and gracefully slipped off the bed. The long flap of the indigo cape thrown over the naked body trailed after the slender silver-haired knight until Sephiroth fell into the deep armchair in front of the fireplace whereat crimson embers were slowly living out their last moments.

"Are you going to explain what is going on with you or not?" The irritation in his lover's voice was predictable and understandable, yet did he have a right to give an honest answer? What if Genesis decides to betray him again, this time crushing not just his feelings, which was bearable, but the fate of his motherland, which was not to be immolated for any purpose or higher goal? "I am still waiting for an answer."

He longed to trust the redhead this time, longed so much that the quiet question slipped from him unawares, "Do you even know who I am, Genesis?"

The redhead softly chuckled, having reminded Sephiroth of the night he tried to tell his lover of his uniqueness, yet failed because the latter wasn't in the mood to listen.

"You make it sound like you are the Light Bringer, the Second Messiah or at least the Liberator of..."

At times Genesis was insufferable, and he responded coldly in order to remind his lover of the boundaries he will not tolerate to be crossed. "If you want an answer to your question, you will have to stop playing jester; otherwise, there will be no conversation."

Genesis' defeated sigh was a good enough sign of peace, "Alright, Seph, enlighten me then."

Sephiroth closed his eyes; so be it. His lover had the right to know.

"I am the last direct descendant of the Capetian blood."

"Whose bastard?" Genesis echoed from behind more eagerly than he would have expected.

"My father, Philip IV, got himself a lover two weeks before his sudden illness. Her name was Jenova, and it was said that she was beautiful, or she would have never attracted attention of the Iron King." Sephiroth rarely thought of his parents although his mother's fate was not known to him; with time, he accepted that he would never see them, one being dead, the other like a sand grain lost in the human ocean of France. Those names meant nothing to him, having remained a series of lifeless letters, and meaningless symbols could not hurt. "After my birth, I was adopted by the Count of Nevers andFlandersfor reasons I have never asked."

"How does being a bastard of the French King prevent you from falling asleep?"

Sephiroth crossed his arms, "Imagine a perfect scenario. I am the King, leading the French army into battle, and the Englishmen lose because I am well aware of their strengths and weaknesses."

"Why did we lose then if you knew all along?"

Sephiroth rose, declining his head onto the bare chest with, whispered more to himself than to the redhead, "We are but mindless puppets of God's vicars and clergy. They thought I accepted it and forgot, God forgive their foolishness; that I forgave them the death of thousands of Frenchmen in Flanders. That I forgave them _my_ weaknesses, _my_ flaws. I could not forgive those to myself." He clasped his palms to his face, stooping over the fireplace, and crimson sheens fluttered on his skin, on the long indigo cape. "Denied, perhaps, but never truly forgot."

Genesis remained silent, and he he was glad, as words, no matter how soothing, would not liberate him.

A smirk graced Sephiroth's lips.

_Veritas vos liberabit._

Accept the truth, accept who you are, and through flames it shall set you free.


	25. Chapter XXIV: Apples and verse

_A/N:_ Um, for you, guys, I'd write Sephi forever. XD well, that's a bit of an overstatement, yet… I do plan a more canonical story written from his first POV. That will be tricky, delving into his mind that far, yet I shall attempt to. :S I just love that character, every single bit of him.

* * *

_**Chapter XX**__**IV.**_

_**Apples and verse**__**.**_

"_Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply; those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire.__"(Unknown author). _

Marguerite could not eat. The taste of the most exquisite food seemed insipid, the finest wine smacked sour, and every time she reached out for bread and her hand touched Sephiroth's was a torture renewed, being so close to her love and so impregnably far at the same time. The quiescence was overwhelming and oppressing anew. Her stepson seemed to be engrossed in thinking, and his lover – not that she wanted to look at the redhead ever again – was no less thoughtful, to which Marguerite was grateful although she never expected to feel gratitude towards the man who stole Sephiroth from her.

The doomed acknowledgement of the thought that her stepson was so flawed and so lost seemed no less painful than understanding he could never love her. How all of this could have happened in just a few days, slipped from her grasp.

Sephiroth looked gorgeous. He always did. That never changed, like the sun would always rise in the east, and that tore the still intact strings in her soul with ruthless fingers. Each time their gazes met it was like a silver-green lightning bursting in her heart.

In her dreams he was one-winged, he could fly, like a demon, and she knew that those dreams, sick and twisted, were sent to her by the devil himself to punish for what was done by her hand.

Marguerite wanted to love her stepson, nothing more.

What was wrong with her simple human wish?

Genesis, the always irascible and impatient one, was the first one to get weary of silence.

"Seph, why don't you ask your squire to sing us something?"

The alias he gave her stepson sounded slighting; spoken by a commoner to Sephiroth as an equal, it should have provoked his wrath, but instead there was a smile on her stepson's lips, a smile she has rarely seen penetrating all the bitterness.

"Certainly." With a gesture the viscount called a servant who obediently waited at the closed doors, so that none could interrupt their meal. "Invite Alber in."

With a nod the man disappeared, and once again Marguerite was left with those two alone. The daughter of kings wanted to ask something, and that she would have only Genesis' presence was as an ice block between Sephiroth and her. The redhead gracefully – that he didn't lack certain elegance even Marguerite was forced to admit to herself – leaned closer to her stepson and whispered something into his ear, the distance between them blatantly improper. Sephiroth replied equally quietly, so that, even having strained her ears, Marguerite couldn't hear a word. With a scandalized face she interrupted their small talk.

"Sephiroth, could you, please, behave properly at least while sitting at the same table with me?"

He turned with clearly amused expression on his unguarded face.

"What ribaldry are you talking about, mother?"

"You and… that man," it was easier to jump from the highest tower in the castle than call the redhead by the given name, "sit at an inappropriate distance."

The amusement didn't disappear from the immaculate face, only a shade of mirth accentuated it. Why did her stepson find her words entertaining?

"Inappropriate?" It was _his_ voice, and she hated everything in it, from the melody one might find beguiling to the always present mockery. "She believes we are behaving indecently. Shall we show her some of the less decorous parts?"

"You are not going to…"

Sephiroth faced her calmly, "Of course, not, mother, yet the sooner you accept my love for Genesis, the easier it shall be to all of us."

Accept? Never!

"I don't want to feel ashamed when I look at you."

She knew that face, a marble stone possessed more life. She knew that voice. Ice was warmer. "If my existence is such an ignominy to you, I believe it is for the best that I leave and we never see each other again."

Seeing him nevermore? How could he be so cruel? How? Her eyes watered with tears.

"You are breaking my heart, even thinking that I would never want to see you again."

"Then why do you keep returning to this pointless talk?"

'_Because I still love you? How can you be so blind?'_ She screamed. Soundlessly. She dared not stir her lips for fear she would break out into a shivering fit. Sephiroth will deny her again, and she still possessed some broken shreds of pride. Unless Genesis disappears, her stepson will never hear her speaking those words to him again.

Alber timidly slipped through the doors, and the youth's presence immediately melted the ice between them.

"Should I sing something, messire?"

Sephiroth, as if nothing has just happened, nodded, having caught shorter silver locks with his long fingers. If her stepson wanted to, he could be so forgetful.

"Yes, sing us something from the _Elder Edda_."

She knew that it was him, who taught Alber the old tales of the Norse. Her stepson's squire took a reed out of his pocket, settled on the floor near the huge lighted fireplace, and his voice began to flow in the knight's hall, melodic, yet the melody was sharp as whetted knives.

"…_Grani to the assembly ran,__  
__his tramp was to be heard;__  
__but Sigurd then__  
__himself came not.__  
__All the saddle-beasts__  
__were splashed with blood,__  
__and with sweating faint,__  
__from the murderers."_

Why did he choose to sing something so mournful, as though there wasn't enough death and suffering in her family?

Uninterrupted, Alber went on.

"_Weeping I went__  
__to talk to Grani,__  
__with humid cheeks,__  
__I prayed the steed to tell:__  
__then Grani shuddered,__  
__in the grass bowed down his head.__  
__The steed knew__  
__that his master was no more..."_

Marguerite imagined her stepson being shot down from the bows on the nameless hill and his jet-black steed returning home without its master, the horse cloth smirched with crimson stains and endless sorrow screaming through the noble animal's eyes.

Why, in the God's name, was he singing about death?

"I can't take it any longer."

Dithering, Marguerite hid her face in the long sleeves of her black dress. She still wore the lugubrious clothing the tradition required. The singing stopped, only her sobs could be heard in the leaden stillness, "You are so cruel. So… heartless…"

The song seemed to have had little effect on Sephiroth or Genesis; two pairs of emerald and sapphire eyes, bright as gems, stared at her with genuine bewilderment. To them it was just a song. To her it was a dirge to the life she dreamt of for so long that without those dreams it simply became hollow.

The war ruined her.

Seeing the state she was in, Sephiroth gallantly escorted her to her bedchambers, having, nevertheless, said nothing. When Marguerite let go of his hand, and his silver-haired frame disappeared in the dark corridor, she finally understood how alone she now was.

The darkness in her rooms was overwhelming. For a moment she fancied seeing her husband greeting her, cold, frightening in his waxen mask, eyes lackluster, yet wide opened.

"_Why did you kill me, Marguerite?_" He asked, his words a knell in her head. "_Why?_"

With a shriek she dashed to the fireplace, with shaking hands kindled weak flames. Her maiden awoke with her yell, and she fell upon her in anger which only masked genuine terror.

"Don't ever leave the room unlit, Kathy!"

Even she flinched at the sound of her own voice.

"As you wish, milady. Do you need help getting undressed?"

"No, no, I don't want anything." That was a lie. She always wanted _him_.

With a thud Marguerite slammed the door to her bedroom.

The sheets in her bed were cold, as though Louis' corpse has lain thereat. In another fit of terror she came running to the mirror.

Loki's face, ugly, with stumps of rotten teeth between wizen lips and small eyes as slits, glared at her from the shining depths.

Was it her reflection, not of the face which was still young and beautiful, but of who she was inside?

With another harrow shriek Marguerite brought her fist down upon the guiltless mirror, the impact sending numerous cracks though its refulgent glassy surface. It wasn't enough. Loki was staring at her from the shards, now distorted and even uglier than before. She hit again, feeling no pain, then again, until with a faint melodic clang the brittle shards cascaded down upon the floor.

Gasping for breath, she fell therebeside, cradling a shattered hand in her other.

"Sephiroth…" His name wasn't enough. "Sephiroth!"

Never was.

Never will be.

* * *

The map of Paris dated with the year of 1320 was spread on the table and held with four candles, each one placed in the corner so that the parchment would not roll. The wax was slowly dripping onto the yellowish paper, and, having bent over the drawing, Sephiroth blindly watched heavy droplets slide along the white stems. No matter how he looked at it, his plan had two critical flaws, and his head was beginning to ache from the inability to find a solution.

If he decided to breach the capital's defences through one of the gates, to which principal bridges led, the small army he was planning to gather would be lost in the torturous intestines of a beast the huge city was, thawing as snow under the scorching rays of sun.

Sephiroth rubbed his forehead with his fingers, trying to fend off overwhelming slumber, and focused again. The picture did not change, the disaster before his eyes did not become less imminent, only small letters began blurring, as though someone poured an inkbottle of water over the map.

The question was how he could become a King without laying siege to the capital. The answer was – nowise.

"Your plan has a flaw," Genesis' words rang from a tall lancet window whereat the redhead stood garbed in a long scarlet robe, slowly sipping wine from the silver goblet. "I can tell that without even looking at your map."

Sephiroth chuckled bitterly, "There are two, actually." Maybe, there was a third one now that Genesis mentioned it.

His lover turned and gracefully leaned his elbows on the windowsill, enough of smooth skin exposed between the collar and the laces of the scarlet robe for him to tear his gaze away from the parchment. Emerald eyes slowly slid along the alluring curves, perfectly outlined by cascading cloth, and for a moment all Sephiroth could think of was how gorgeously the redhead looked in scarlet. The reciprocal challenge hid in everything, from the way his lover's slender legs were crossed to the sapphire glint in bottomless eyes.

"Maybe," Genesis agreed easily, bringing the goblet to his lips. "I am talking about the flaw that concerns your bloodline. Although I would love to see you on the French throne, I am compelled to remark that being Philip's the Handsome bastard doesn't give you the rights to claim the highest power. None of those petty nobles will peacefully accept being ruled by a bastard. Moreover, the whole Europe might take up arms against you as those avid scavengers only wait for us to make a mistake." Yes, that was one flaw. Sephiroth lowered his eyes to watch an intricate dance of candle flame on the parchment, but not fast enough for Genesis to fail to notice the change on the marble face. Amazed, he exclaimed, "Dost thou honestly think you are strong enough to rewrite the existing laws and set your own rules?!"

The redhead was too perspicacious. "What if I do?" Sephiroth inquired thoughtfully and quietly, as though asking himself and the not the scarlet-clad lover.

"I would say you were mad if I didn't know you better. You are capable of striving for the impossible." The answer surprised him, moreover, lacking the usual irony, it reassured of Genesis' sincerity. Attentively the knight looked at his lover, as though expecting the redhead to change his mind and twist his lips in a sneer, but the latter, having put the goblet aside, gracefully neared he table. "When we first met, I noticed you were unique, extraordinary. I underestimated you, thus having lost and ended up in your captivity." Two slender palms slid in-between the lapels of his silver robe from behind, warm and fragile, like those of a loving child, and Sephiroth felt the weight of the redhead's body pressed to his from behind. The viscount still did not understand what his lover was getting at. "Did you know that none ever defeated me? I always escaped. Thereupon I understood that you were unlike anyone I have ever met heretofore; like a larva differs from a butterfly, your wings were proudly spread above your head and all you lacked was a little push, then you'd fly. Fascinating, truly. It was easy to worship you from afar, to stand blinded with awe, to envy or misjudge you, yet so hard to understand and love." Thick with emotion Genesis' low voice trembled, and he could drown in its sound, he honestly wanted to. "It is so hard to catch and keep a butterfly, isn't it? At first I desired to bereave you of those wings, wings I no longer possessed, yet with time I came to love them, as I fell in love with you. It is the strangest feeling, you know, like awakening or epiphany, like suddenly seeing the harmony of celestial spheres or iridescent skies."

"Genesis," his throat contracted, suddenly making it hard to breathe and swallow, "I don't…"

"Just let me talk, will you?" The replica rang with affectionate lenience, yet it wasn't for it that Sephiroth lapsed into silence. "I did manage to see in the end, didn't I? I was almost too late." The grip around his shoulders tightened, and the redhead's voice dropped to a nearly soundless whisper inflamingly hot on his skin. Sephiroth wanted to kiss him, yet knew that he had to let the latter finish. "And when I finally looked beyond all that, beyond a caterpillar and a butterfly, I understood that to bring France to its knees one has to be as extraordinary as you are, otherwise, this will be a very painful and ruthful attempt; and because you are a prominent leader, a brilliant mind, and an acute commander, I believe in you." Sephiroth didn't expect those words and sudden warmth they begot, which like a wave rose from the depths of his heart, having found a reflection in a faint smile. It meant a lot to him, even more than he expressed by taking one of the redhead's palms and thoughtfully bringing it to his lips. "However, I have another plan that doesn't involve besieging the capital."

"Which one?" The quiet replica escaped the knight's lips almost unawares, for his mind was still preoccupied with the words the redhead has just uttered, heart filled with almost tangible warmth that inundated him as the viscount realized how much Genesis believing in his success meant to him. It gave wings and nearly ironclad self-reliance. However, what Genesis said next, astonished.

"You are not ready to hear it yet." Sephiroth turned abruptly, having nearly spilled his goblet of wine that stood on the edge of the table, having brushed against one of the candles with the long sleeve of his robe, and glared at his lover, causing the latter to sigh and move away, hiding the bright sapphires of his eyes in the fringe of long dark lashes. "Do not look at me like that, Seph. Please. Do you remember what happened to us the last time we had this conversation? I am trying not to repeat the previous mistakes."

That was not what he meant. "Genesis," it was spoken softly, eyes still riveted on the redhead's face although his glance clearly caused the latter's awkwardness, "I am incapable of feeling bigotry towards any idea. I changed, I had to, otherwise, it would have simply been better for me to die on the hills at Crecy. I saw the flaw, the decay, and, unless I die, nothing will stop me even if I have to claim the French throne alone. But," he shook his head, "I do not wish to do it alone, the difference being between the need and desire. I shall require your help, Genesis, your help and your trust."

He tried, having put as much sincerity into his words as he could, yet Genesis only blinked in slight embarrassment, having run the tips of his long fingers along his palm, "Then trust me when I say it is too early. In the meanwhile we shall concentrate on more pressing matters, like money or the army."

Sephiroth couldn't help but feel dissatisfaction. Was honesty too much to ask for of the redhead? The knight wasn't asking much of his lover in the first place, and feeling of being played behind his back naturally stirred deep displeasure.

"Why are you so stubborn?"

The redhead softly smirked, having thrown his head back, and straightened. The scarlet cloth cascaded along his slender frame, like vivid lively tongues of flame, and he again had that spunk of feeling, as though the redhead was molten amber in his veins.

"Ask yourself why you love me and would you love me if I wasn't myself? We are who we are, Seph, with pride of our own."

To that Sephiroth did not know what to say, for while Genesis was right, he still disliked being withheld from knowing the entire picture. Frowning, he essayed again, "I promise this time I shall hear you out even if I disagree."

Instead of answering the question, his lover picked an apple from the tray of food the servants left from the feast and strolled back to the window, shining eyes fixed on the golden fruit held high above his head.

"You know, apples are simple gifts of nature we rarely appreciate, however, they are like sparks, golden vivacious sparks, and as in any other gift, there is an enigma to them, too. Don't you agree?"

Against his will thin lips stretched into a smirk. At times Genesis was insufferable, yet it was hard to hold a grudge against him for long.

"As much as I wish to agree, I see no mystery in an apple."

"At times you lack keenness." Genesis answered with an enigmatic spark in his sapphire gaze. "An apple of discord started the Trojan war, and I bet the Forbidden Fruit was an apple, too."

Sephiroth rose and came abreast with his lover, feeling a sudden urge to kiss him again, yet mesmerized by the image of him with an apple, an image so akin to the Tempter it made the knight smile anew, teasing. "Would you bet your life it wasn't a plum?"

The redhead laughed, putting the golden fruit into his palms and closing his fingers around the tender skin. "Share it with me. Let it be the symbol of a bond…"

"Hush," Sephiroth's lips covered his lover's while he was still speaking, revelling in their almost feminine softness, "or I'll see you as a serpent. Angels… you know that angels fell through pride. They weren't so different from us, after all."

Genesis' palm slid between the flaps of the long silver robe, finding his skin, inch after inch in a slow teasing caress, and the knight couldn't suppress the sweet trepidation, holding the redhead in his arms.

"No, not different at all." To the sound of his lover's melodic voice Sephiroth took a bite from the golden apple still held in his free hand. Genesis followed, having tasted the fruit from the other side. It was a strange bond, the one of which symbolism he understood little, yet felt its strength and its meaning.

_Apples are like golden vivacious sparks_…

Sephiroth smiled, returning Genesis' kiss, yet moved away before both of them got carried away.

"We have a lot to decide today." The old map of Paris ousted Genesis' beautiful eyes as Sephiroth neared the table whereupon he sat before. Having momentarily lingered to gather thoughts, the knight let Genesis conclude.

"We shall need money, allies and an army, and while I am of little use with the last two, I certainly will do my best to aid you with gold."

"How?"

Genesis forced a cold smile, so repulsive Sephiroth didn't envy anyone it was intended for. "You have already forgotten about our old friend, Lorenzo. I, on the contrary, don't forget anything."

"Lorenzo will not give me a copper after we fooled him, thereat I don't even wish to ask."

Genesis shook his auburn head, "I never said anything about asking, didn't I? Do you think he earned his wealth by being hallow? Every merchant like him has a dirty secret he'd pay anything not to let it be unmasked, and I am not talking about my nearly chaste games with his niece, Blanche. It could be a murder, a bargain behind someone's back, something ugly enough to malign their outwardly unsullied name." He smirked wryly. "Give me a week, and I shall return with a couple of thousands livres."

"We shall see," Sephiroth had to admit to himself he had doubts about the redhead's intentions, however, he commended the design. "We won't need too much, since I don't plan to gather a huge army, which in our case is impossible since most areas are denuded of troops after that… ill-fated campaign." It still hurt to remember Crecy; likely, it will haunt him until the end of his days. "I think around two hundred heavily mailed cavalrymen and three thousand infantrymen should suffice. I believe, instead of large numbers we shall have to rely on surprise, speed and…"

"… a talented commander," Genesis finished with another of his smiles, half-ironic, half-genuine ones. "I agree. I wouldn't want to wage a war against the French and the English crowns simultaneously."

Sephiroth gloomily nodded because Genesis' thoughts disquietingly mirrored his own. The moment Edward III hears of his rebellion, he will invade France again, despite the likely disgraceful peace treaty which followed the battle of Crecy and which he yet needed to find out about. He could not let another ravage happen thus they needed to act quickly, furtively and as painless as possible.

"What about the allies?"

"I can only think of the Duke of Burgundy, yet with him we have to be careful. I shall send Alber to his castle to arrange a meeting." Sephiroth threw his heavy head back and watched the ceiling dotted with dancing specks of light. "Then we will see what he has to say, however, with the numbers of the most powerful nobles significantly reduced after the battle, his help will be priceless."

Genesis brought a goblet to his lips and drank it up in one gulp. Sephiroth shifted his gaze to the map of Paris, another hauntingly vivid thought of his troops perishing in its tortuous narrow streets flashing before his eyes; when he lifted his gaze, Genesis stood before his eyes unclothed, his scarlet robe jauntily cast aside, and the knight could no longer think of anything but the smooth curves of his lover's body lavishly exposed to the shameless caress of fluttering sheens.

"I think we are done for now. After all, such matters cannot be decided in one day." Sephiroth followed him with his eyes, oblivious of the emerald fires dancing within, until Genesis disappeared behind the silver canopy of his bed. "How long am I going to wait for you?"

Sephiroth blew out the candles with a light smirk and rose. Another thought sopped him half-way between the table and the bed, and he quietly asked, "Does my desire to wage another war so soon after the disaster at Crecy make me a monster?"

He should have expected a rather blunt, Genesis-like, "Among other things, yes. But…"

That excuse Viscount du Bugey could guess, as though he was reading his lover's mind like an opened book.

"Success is never blamed." A rueful smile touched his lips. "I know."

Genesis said nothing, clinging to him as he slipped underneath the sheets, soon finding himself disrobed and fervently kissing his lover's burning lips.

Bringing France to its knees will not be an easy task.

* * *

Genesis chose his victim carefully, with almost parental fondness. It took him nearly a day to track the man down in the labyrinth of narrow dirty streets Nevers has always been known for. The redhead's victim didn't differ much from any other man or woman in the city; he wore the same simple clothes, went about his routine chores from the church to the store, to the smithy and then ended up in the inn when the bells rang six times.

Genesis chose him for another reason. The man served as Lorenzo's butler.

The city didn't change, as though the war hasn't raged just a couple hundreds of leages north of it. Most people were yet to find out they lost another major battle to the Englishmen, which, likely, meant more strict duties and higher taxes for them. They slept peacefully, unaware that on the battlefield of Crecy their lords spilled blood for them, and that among those nobles was a man he loved. They knew little, they cared little.

Genesis couldn't help but feel slight contempt.

Over the heads of numerous evening customers the redhead saw a bald spot of the man he's been shadowing all day. The air was thick with acrid smell of cheap beer and sweat, with crude idle chatter irksome to his ears. His neighbour, a smith judging by his greasy, burnt here and there apron, started singing in a tipsy high-pitched voice until his friends finally silenced him.

Genesis shook his auburn head, suddenly smirking. Sephiroth would reprimand him for being so careless and showing his face in the city whereat he could be easily recognized by some of the vengeful merchant's servants, but he was so used to playing with death this encounter will only be another nearly innocent game.

The redhead curtly beckoned a young tavern servant, "The man two tables across is my friend. Bring him another mug of beer… it'll be on me, of course," he added, having extended two coppers, one for the meal, another for silence. The boy understood everything perfectly, and soon he could watch his victim accept the gift with slight bewilderment, yet, as he predicted, the man eventually drank it. The second mug followed shortly. Genesis' eyes narrowed as though he was trying to read the butler's mind, penetrate the thick haze of the latter's drunk thoughts to understand whether he was tipsy enough. After the third mug the man certainly seemed as such.

The redhead rose, lingered a moment to straighten his slightly creased cotardie, and crossed the aisle to slip into the seat by his victim's side. The dull eyes slid along his face with complete indifference and returned to studying the contents of the mug.

"An excellent evening, don't you find?" Genesis couldn't refrain from the mockery as his nimble fingers were already fumbling for the key in the man's pocket. The loss of it will get the butler in trouble, but, maybe, it'll teach him not to drink in the pubs that much.

The man hiccupped and gloomily added, "So you say."

The redhead has already found what he was looking for and with a lenient tap on the shoulder rose to leave.

"Bring my friend another beer," he addressed a servant boy for the last time with a wink, "he had a really bad day."

That he will when he gets home without a key and without any memories of the evening. Grinning to himself, Genesis slipped out of the inn and into the warmth of the autumn night. Having led his horse out of the stables, he mounted and hurried to the city gates before they closed.

The gust of night wind threw a handful of yellow leaves and dust in his face. A key to Lorenzo's stronghold lay in his pocket, and by tomorrow he will have a weapon against the merchant or his alias of a devil's spawn was given to him for nothing.

…When Genesis returned to Chateau de Thil, he was surprised to find Sephiroth in the training grounds, his silver frame as a bright moth visible in darkness and attracting his attention with the endless, endowed by the nature itself grace and beauty. Carefully stepping over the dirt on the withering yellowish grass, the redhead neared the fenced arena, leaned on the interweaving of thick wooden logs, still slightly warm from the heat of the burning torches. The nights haven't become cold yet, and his lover was fighting the straw effigies shirtless.

"You switched to those who cannot fight back. How noble of you," he ironically observed, watching the beautifully built body bend and unbend in an intricate lace of thrusts, a huge bastard sword effortlessly flutter as butterfly wings in his strong hand as it tore through the straw bodies.

Sephiroth immediately halted, turned to face him, small beads of sweat streaming along his smooth skin and scattered silver haloing his frame from waist to head. His lover will look majestic in the French crown, the redhead suddenly thought with a smile, in the crown the knight certainly deserved, and he will be left with enough glory to bathe in until he died.

"Genesis," the greeting was always reserved and polite; no matter what he said it was nearly impossible to throw Sephiroth off that cold pedestal, nearly impossible and thus unbearably tempting.

The redhead gracefully jumped over the fence and circled his lover as though trying to find a weak spot for a lunge, "My day was fruitful if you wish to know. I was able to penetrate Lorenzo's defences. What about you?"

Sephiroth discarded the enormous training blade and wiped his dank forehead with the back of the slender palm. "I sent Alber to the Duke's castle. The answer, I hope, will arrive around noon in two days. If he agrees to meet with us, we shall be extremely careful."

"You can talk to him alone if you wish. I do not mind." Genesis noticed a scar on his shoulder; most likely, his lover still felt slight discomfort from the wounds, and challenging him was irresistibly tempting. The redhead was always bad at abstaining. "How about you fight someone who can actually resist?"

Sephiroth couldn't restrain a chuckle, "If you are suggesting yourself, I am not taking up on your offer."

"Do you think I am that bad?" He flared up immediately as a restive horse. A wave of irritation rose inside, a desire to prove him wrong, the price notwithstanding.

"No." The emerald eyes stopped him. "I don't. I am simply tired."

Although Genesis doubted it was the real reason, herein he decided against arguing, taking a deep breath and feeling the scorching wave harmlessly dissipate. Soon it was just another smile on his lips as a thought to play up to his lover flashed in his head.

"You _do_ look tired. I believe it's time for an evening meal and a share of delightful enjoyment thereafter."

As a frown creased the otherwise flawless marble forehead and beautifully shaped lips pursed into a thin line, with content Genesis understood that, despite Sephiroth's intentions, he had his little victory.

After all, life consisted of little victories until they turn into the grandiose one.

The silver-haired knight picked up the training sword and headed for the wide pathway that led to the inner gates; Genesis followed.

"I've been thinking of the shining future that shall await us after we win the war against the French crown."

The redhead slightly lifted his head to see his lover's face.

"You don't sound extremely optimistic."

Sephiroth hemmed, responding to the sentry's bow as the mailed man let them through the gates, "In a way the effect will be similar to the Rubicon's crossing. I cannot predict how it may echo through the centuries. I wish I could see, but it is beyond my power."

"You still have doubts, don't you?"

His lover nodded, "We will destroy much, Genesis. The question is whether we shall be able to rebuild afterwards, and, if we cannot, on the scrolls I shall remain the most unsuccessful and short-lived king of France."

Despite the bitterness in the viscount's voice, Genesis carelessly waved his words aside.

Everything was going as planned. Tomorrow he will return to Nevers and speak to Blanche. She will come. She will talk.

Only even Genesis could not imagine what he was about to discover.


	26. Chapter XXV: Voices and darkness

_A/N:_ They really shouldn't have given Sephiroth a name so tied to the Biblical myth. :D

* * *

_**Chapter XXV.**_

_**Voices and darkness.**_

"_You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist." (F. Nietzsche)._

Blanche came. As Genesis was used to, he slipped a note to her room with a key he stole, and that note told her where and when to meet him. She always came. He had a power over that sweet, naïve girl, a power only men like him could possess, a power of beauty, charm and of the first love. Sephiroth had it, too, yet either didn't wish to grasp, or didn't want to abuse. How noble it was of him. Genesis, however, forgot what honour meant a long time ago.

Blanche came, and for the first time the redhead felt slight pity.

Genesis decided it was for the best to meet in a sordid narrow alley between a brothel and a smithy, the passageway blocked by a caravan of vagrant mendicants. This way, to any unsuspecting witness they would appear as a squire and a wanton girl, at the same time remaining hidden from overly curious eyes. The noises vivacity of any market square carried did not reach them either, aside from the faint, indiscernible to a human ear clamor.

"Genesis," as a greeting, a shy smile curved Blanche's lips, so shy it almost wasn't there, "I thought you'd never come back. You forgot about me. What made you remember?"

The redhead absently passed his hand over the shabby wall, feeling irritated with the unnecessary sentiments. Wasn't it obvious that he didn't just suddenly remember her? If it was his lover he was dealing with, everything would be so much simpler.

"I need your help, Blanche."

Perplexed, she blinked, "My help, Genesis? If I can ever repay you, tell me how."

The redhead pondered over the question for an instant.

"I have to ask about your uncle."

"What do you need to know?"

It was rather careless of him, to inquire so bluntly, but he could not think of any other way to soften the blow. "Did he ever make any mendacious deals?"

The smile on Blanche's lips was a smile of an adult, something he clearly did not expect. "Oh, my uncle is a hypocrite, Genesis," the eagerness, with which she spoke, was slightly appalling as well, "and it is by dishonesty he earned his wealth. If you wish to know more about him, ask lady Marguerite de Nevers."

His lover's stepmother? It was his turn to look utterly perplexed, but he was a much better actor. As if Blanche's words meant nothing, the redhead continued, "Did she make a deal with Lorenzo?"

"She came to my uncle's house one evening, and I know that if women come to him, it means trouble. It meant trouble when we were in Venice. When Milord Louis died, I started suspecting it had something to do with her visit, for after she left the next morning, my uncle hastily sent a messenger to England. I would still have doubts if it didn't happen before. In Venice he killed a lover for a very noble lady who didn't want her affair to become public."

For an instant Genesis felt disbelief. Why would Marguerite kill her own husband? Except that… It made perfect sense, and there was another way to find out, only he didn't need the girl any longer.

"Thank you, Blanche, your help was invaluable," he sang in the most charming voice. "I will only ask of you to keep our meeting secret."

"How will I explain my absence?"

"You'll tell them what you used to when you sneaked out of the house before." She still looked doubtful, and Genesis made up his mind. Sephiroth did not need to know. There was a shriek heard from the caravan of mendicants, "Just a copper, noble lady, I am not asking for more," and to it Genesis quickly leaned over the girl and placed a nearly chaste kiss on her lips. Their feel, their taste was unfamiliar, insipid.

Blanche blushed like a rose, sparked like a drop of morning dew, and there was no longer a sign of vacillation on her face.

"Will you ever be back?"

The redhead did not want to lie, "No, Blanche. Farewell."

The news required exigent measures, and he didn't want to waste any more time with the girl.

"Genesis," she hailed him for the last time, and he turned to watch the bright spark of her light-blue dress slowly disappear in the crowd, "you showed me life, and for that I shall always be grateful to you."

Her last words were wafted to his ears by wind, and for the first time Genesis felt slight pity and remorse.

Only revelations he made about Sephiroth's stepparents didn't let those feelings linger.

* * *

The dungeon was dark, and, despite the outside warmth, chill clung to his body as Sephiroth slowly descended the narrow staircase and plunged into the sea of dank, stale air. The torch flames danced in draught, strewing sparks around the clad in a long indigo cape frame. It was easy to get lost in the convoluted labyrinth underneath the castle which eventually ended in a straight underpass that led out of Chateau de Thil, however, the knight knew his way around by heart. Louis made sure that as a child he learned all exits and entrances in case their home was sieged by the enemy.

First turn to the right brought the viscount to the large room of the family sepulcher whereat his stepfather now rested in peace. Having placed the torch into an iron ring, Sephiroth found a large coffin by the cloaked in a faded tapestry wall, and bent over it.

So little time, less than a month, has passed since his father perished in the hellfire he himself helped to ignite, having taken nearly twenty, or thereby, thousands of Frenchmen with him. Sephiroth still could not fully grasp the reason why someone would prefer to surrender to their jealousy instead of admitting a mistake and attempting to correct it.

Their last words were far from friendly, and thereafter he regretted the harshness; before having shattered his world, Louis was a good father and gave him much he will always remember and cherish. Right now all the silver-haired viscount felt was sadness, nearly clear of the umbrage for the unfair treatment, yet the mourning could not stop him from achieving the goal he has set for himself.

A salient engraving curved underneath his long fingers as Sephiroth slowly ran them over his father's coffin. _Amor Fati_, it said. _Love your fate_.

Whether his father would have approved of his new goal or not, the knight could not predict. Likely, he would not have, being as cautious and prudent as he was, and he certainly would not have been happy with his relationship with Genesis. Just as Marguerite could not understand what his lover meant to him, so wouldn't his father inasmuch as they were both unable to see beyond restrictions of religion and preposterous bans.

The coffin lid was cold underneath his palm, the sensation unpleasant, as though he was touching the dead man's hand.

There was time when Sephiroth thought he would never turn against the French crown, chained to it by duty and devotion he chose to bestow upon himself as a gratitude for what it did to him in childhood. Until recently he believed any war waged against the throne was unjustified and violence unwarrantable, yet it proved to be his weakness, and the realization, Sephiroth suspected, Genesis had a lot to do with.

"This time there will be no failures, father," he whispered softly, thoughtfully, fingers still on the engravings, and the words rang more like an arrogant promise to himself than to the only man he knew and cherished as his father. France will burn, through flames he shall change it and, as molten steel, sculpt its shape anew. To fulfill his higher purpose he no longer needed anyone's blessings.

Sephiroth rose in a cascade of deep indigo and silver, a light smirk caressing his lips.

_Indeed, Genesis, the sweet tempter, we are who we are; ex facte, in it there is little meaning or hope, and yet so much at the same time, for in the end it is ourselves that we have, and only it is for ourselves to decide whether we want little, or we want more, or we want the whole world._

In a swift movement the viscount picked up the torch from the iron ring; his long shadow flickered on the wall for the last time, having plunged into darkness when the knight walked around the corner.

He will mourn his father later.

Whenas he wears the French crown.

* * *

"Where is Sephiroth?"

"He is in the catacombs, father Rhapsodos," a servant obsequiously bowed, having fomented a smirk on cerise lips. Genesis wasn't used to such treatment, but had to admit to himself that he liked it a lot. It was easily accustomed to and hard to be forgotten.

Having tripped up the stairs, Genesis stormed into his room and locked the door; outside it was just another ebullient autumn day, not remarkable in any way, but its triteness so frail, the power to break it, to stir up a beehive, all in his hands. The redhead swiftly drew a curtain, and a dark shadow fell across his room.

It took him about an hour to get from Nevers to Chateau de Thil, and in that hour he had plenty of time to comprehend what Blanche's words meant. They were a sword of two edges, one against Lorenzo and Marguerite, the other against Sephiroth and himself. With the knowledge about this rather nefarious intrigue Genesis acquired a weapon against his lover's stepmother, yet if he was unable to keep it secret from the silver-haired knight, the results could be disastrous. Only Creator knew what Sephiroth was capable of if he was to find out that his mother paid Lorenzo to assassinate his father. On the other hand, the redhead's plan to coax Lorenzo into paying them money had failed; he imagined finding out something less personal, so that Sephiroth could be present during their conversation. If Genesis went to this hornet's nest alone, none would give even a rusty coin for his life.

Genesis started to pace up and down the room, thinking hard, yet as moments slipped by, no other solution miraculously struck him to settle the dilemma he faced, aside from going straight to his lover's stepmother.

Marguerite looked nohow, the redhead had to admit even despite his strong dislike of her. When without invitation he entered the bedchambers whereat she sat alone, his lover's stepmother lifelessly lifted her head, having frozen in that inexpressive pose. Genesis also noticed she was hiding her right fist in the long sleeves of the lugubrious dress.

Marguerite looked like she wanted nothing from the world, for even his insulting presence didn't provoke a single caustic remark, not a reprimand even, as though she accepted and no longer cared.

It was just a toneless, "What do you want?" that told Genesis she noticed him.

"Nothing in particular, milady, besides the desire to clear up one matter." His pose was relaxed and yet superior enough, for she had to understand who was dictating the conditions now. "Aside from that, I have a request to make."

He expected to argue, and the once again torpid, "Ask then, Genesis," was as a total surprise.

"I wish," he nevertheless demanded in a tone intolerant to any objections, "for you to forget about Sephiroth's affair with me, and by that I imply I don't want to hear any more remarks or complaints. Of course, it means you'll have to forget about him as well."

For the first time since he entered her opal eyes sparked with anger, "You dare asking me to forget about my son?"

"We both know what I mean, milady."

Her face brightened a bit, the color retuned to her cheeks, however momentarily, "I don't care about what you know, devil's spawn."

Genesis smirked, "Not if I tell Sephiroth you have killed his father."

She leapt up to her feet, having toppled the candlestick with a loud din, and screamed as if life itself was leaving her. "How dare you make such accusations?"

Genesis wished he could clap his hands to his ears. Sephiroth never screamed, even when angry, and he had to admit to himself he got out of the habit of dealing with viragos. "I know about your deal with Lorenzo, milady. You wouldn't deny that."

"What deal? I made no deals!"

Genesis swiftly turned around on his heels and placed his hand onto the doorknob. "Fine. I am telling Sephiroth now, and we will let him decide what truth is and what – fallacy."

He knew he was bluffing and that he would keep this knowledge from his lover for as long as he could, but Marguerite believed, for silence fell, and in that silence Genesis faced a shattered old woman instead of an incensed virago.

"I admit everything." The whisper was barely heard, poignant, helpless. "Do whatever you want, devil's spawn, only don't take away the joy of seeing him every day, the last joy I am left with. I made a deal with Lorenzo, and I – see how damned I am – would have done it a thousand times more, all for the sole scintilla of delusion." Marguerite slowly slid down to the ground, a waxen statue in the black laces, and knelt before him. "Do not tell him anything, I beg you. Therein he will never forgive me."

She crooked her fingers, as though trying to hold onto that delusion which was slipping from her grasp. Genesis was slightly ashamed and, theretofore pitiless, felt compassion towards this cursed, deep down in her heart wretched woman. Like a hound, Sephiroth's stepmother followed her obsession, her master with a short leash, and whereon she should have chosen to give up, forget, let go, her choice was to feed the flames of impossible desire until it burnt her hollow, and they would be lucky if it stopped there.

He and Marguerite had much more in common than he first suspected, however, the sudden surge of sympathy didn't last long as he recalled that it was for Sephiroth he came here. Thereupon he sat down and set forth the details of his plan, which his lover's stepmother heard out silently, only nodded humbly when he finished.

She had no other choice.

When the redhead left Marguerite's bedchambers, he felt as though possessing a double-edged sword lifted above the scaffold. Smirking with content, he ran down the stairs to the kitchen to find food, headed for his lover's room thereafter, intending to keep Sephiroth occupied and as far from Marguerite as possible for the rest of the day.

As he thought, Genesis found the knight in his bedchambers edged with maps and books. Having closed the door, he moved the chair up to the table and lounged in it with a tray of food.

Sephiroth was writing something on the unrolled vellum scroll, and that letter was so important his lover only greeted him with an absent nod, not that Genesis minded. He could marvel the knight for hours just the way he was, sitting slightly bent over the parchment, shorter locks scattered over his face. Genesis reached out and brushed the tress off the smooth cheek, having engendered a smile that curved the corners of those thin lips, an expression so simple, yet divine.

Maybe, divinity should lack pompousness and appear in an ever so simple shape, however, still possessing complexity of his lover's mind.

Sephiroth was clad in a cloak of deep indigo color, the same one Genesis saw him wearing during the last couple of days, whereupon kept wondering whether it had something to do with his lover's design. Yet, the redhead waited until Sephiroth signed the parchment and put it aside to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue.

"Why are you wearing indigo all the time?"

The knight drew the map towards himself, and, having peered over his shoulder, Genesis recognized the castle and its surroundings.

"I think this color will suit our battle banners."

"What of the motto?"

Sephiroth diverted his attention from the map to flash a warm smile at him, "I borrowed it from you. Veritas vos liberabit."

_The truth will set you free_. How ironic, Genesis thought, ironic and at the same time symbolic. Maybe, he could be set free in the end, and it was in his lover's power only to cure him. He wished he was right, however frail his hope was. "Do you know how much it means to me?"

Sephiroth nodded, with elegance and meticulousness tracing a line along one of the defensive walls, "I do," then paused for an instant with a thoughtful frown. "Do you see the problem?"

"I am honestly clueless," Genesis felt no desire to pretend he understood what his lover was talking about. "I see a castle wall on a drawing."

Sephiroth didn't fail to smirk with superiority, and this time Genesis didn't know if he was simply expressing innate pride in his knowledge or taking a little revenge for heliocentric theories.

"We should be ready for any unforeseen circumstances, which include defending our fortress. However, this castle was built nearly two and a half centuries ago when architects had no notion of how to design it properly. The wall you are looking at is the longest and thus the hardest one to defend. It should have been divided into two and an extra tower added here," a tip of the clean goose quill rested against the parchment exactly in the middle of the said wall, and Genesis once again admired his lover's faultless eye.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Build another tower, since I cannot tear down the whole wall." Sephiroth gracefully stretched, his movements as a flowing indigo stream, and Genesis reached out to catch emerald sparks in his lover's eyes, kissing the fluttering lashes.

"Blanche didn't know anything," the lie passed his lips in a purr, and he felt no regret whatsoever about being dishonest with his lover. "Yet, I have another lead that will give me the answers I need."

"Forget about it, Genesis, we will find gold somewhere else."

Don't even think about it, Sephiroth, the redhead silently traversed, climbing over the armrest and into his lover's deep armchair.

"Hardly," that he said and with a sly smile bent over the slender body underneath, for a moment his entirely and never truly his, inasmuch as it was impossible to possess the free spirit his lover always was, all his desires notwithstanding. His attempts only created a crack between them, nearly fatal, which would have turned final if he didn't learn from his mistakes. "You had my promise, remember? Else I will think you are awfully forgetful."

The thin lips stretched into a smirk, "Is it that bad to be forgetful?" A warm palm caressed his cheek, emerald eyes starlight, and Genesis suddenly found an unremarkable spot on the barren wall extremely interesting to stare at. "You wouldn't want me to recount all our petty mistakes, like a niggard, would you?"

Warm fingers slid underneath the collar of his cotardie, tender and meticulous, as though intending to explore every inch of his skin, and the redhead decided to remain silent, preventing himself from uttering something that would lead to another loss of temper. Instead, he slipped out of his lover's embrace and turned a key in a lock, so that they wouldn't be interrupted.

"I always wondered what the menials thought about you attending a shrift so often. Do you believe that they take it as a sign of _extraordinary_ piety?"

Sephiroth chuckled, having thrown the indigo garments off with an elegant gesture. "I haven't attended a single shrift after the battle of Crecy."

Therein he froze, fingers tangled in the laces of his almost transparent undershirt and a shadow thrown over the heretofore halcyon features. Genesis wondered if his lover could ever forget that ill-fated battle, not that he blamed the viscount. Even he still had nightmares about finding Sephiroth dead with pecked out eyes and face mutilated by ravens.

To distract his lover from dismal thoughts Genesis quickly unclothed himself, satisfied with the immediate response in silver-green depths, vivid and scorching, as though someone has turned the gem's facets towards the sun.

The redhead thoughtfully ran his fingers over his lover's scarred shoulder, still standing at arm's length, his touches a bit curious, a bit playful, a bit rapturous, for it was hard not to marvel at even something as shallow as the shell his lover's mind was encased in. Sephiroth pushed him to the wall, trapping between his body and the wooden wainscot. Genesis obeyed, having surrendered himself to the power of the only man he ever wished to surrender to.

His first kiss was light, teasing, lips tracing a thin coarse line of the new scar. Sephiroth allowed it, patiently waiting for his tongue to finish the intricate pattern on the smooth skin, and Genesis felt long fingers gently playing with locks of his hair, here and there gifting him with feather light caresses. From the elegant line of the collarbone, along the neck Genesis' lips stole up to his lover's as though wanting to leave the kiss for the final, most delicious part of the prelude.

Sephiroth leaned on both of his palms, still playing a seemingly indifferent spectator, only silver-green eyes blinked in pleasure, their fires hiding behind the canopy of long lashes.

Genesis wasn't disappointed. Having slowly pushed his lover's lips apart, the redhead brought their tongues together tenderly, unable to suppress sweet trepidation and throbbing longing arising each time his lover playfully bit at his lower lip. Sephiroth lost a share of his unruffled composure to his leisured explorations as well, the little signs so familiar and easy to read now, from the slightly increased pulse on his wrist to the quickened breath.

With him everything was always subtle, for Sephiroth was a subtle being.

The loud knock on the door interrupted their delightful prelude. To Genesis' dissatisfaction – he wanted his lover all to himself – Sephiroth immediately straightened, picked up the cape from the floor and, having thrown it over his shoulders, tried to smooth out the creased shirt and scattered silver tresses, the attempts ever so amusing, for his lips, still burning from the redhead's kisses, betrayed them shamelessly.

When the door flung open, Genesis doubted Sephiroth looked any less disarrayed, but the pale maid, who appeared on the threshold with a candle, didn't seem to notice. To his lover's dissatisfied, "What do you want, Kathy?" she could only force a chillingly shrill response.

"Milady has singed herself!"

* * *

Walking down the corridor, Sephiroth could still sense his lover's lips, infatuating softness lingering on his skin, and regret he felt was indescribable, clouding his thoughts, preventing realization from sinking in. Could it be that his stepmother tried to burn herself? Why?

The servants he met in the hallway dashed aside to let the indigo lightning pass, fear evident on their faces, for he was rarely seen in such state. Genesis stayed in his room, or so he hoped, because the least of all he needed now was an obstinate lover to deal with.

His stepmother was already in bed, a castle barber bustling about her with a basin of bloodied water, and even from the threshold she looked like death warmed up. Her right arm was mutilated by numerous blisters and rested on the whiteness of sheets, like an ugly appendix that didn't belong to the rest of Marguerite's body.

Emerald eyes flashed fire as he ordered the barber to clear out, so that he could find out what had happened herein. The man pleaded to stay to finish treating her wound – something Sephiroth didn't think of – and until he was done he couldn't forgo pacing up and down the room, morose as a thunderstorm cloud.

What was happening in his house? Here he was already willing to believe his stepmother had accepted his lover, yet what a fool's hope that turned out to be.

Still, what, if anything, she was trying to prove to him, Sephiroth could not understand.

"Can you explain what is going on, mother?" He demanded at once when the barber finally left.

Her dry lips opened to force a pitiful mumbling, "It tortured me, so hot, so painful. I burn."

Having collected himself, the knight took a seat on the edge of his stepmother's bed and repeated the question with tenderness. This time her reply was a little more coherent, "The guilt. Burns. So hot."

Was she talking about Joan's death? If so, he was willing to grant her forgiveness. Having taken her uninjured hand, Sephiroth looked into his stepmother's opaque eyes.

"Whether you can hear me, I do not know, however, I wanted you to understand that I forgave you."

He could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. "You forgave me nothing but an old scar." She licked her dry lips, clinging to his hand. "A new wound burns, my poor child. My poor, poor son."

Sephiroth frowned, ready to ask the question he did not know the consequences of, when the door flung open, and Genesis stormed into his stepmother's bedchambers. Didn't he tell – no, ask – his lover to stay out of this?

"Kathy asserts it was just an accident," Genesis' casual remark seemed out of place, mendacious even.

An objection was about to pass his lips when the redhead grabbed his hand and nearly hauled out of the room. Arms boldly twined around his waist in the most unambiguous manner, them being in the hallway notwithstanding.

"You left me in the most inappropriate hour."

Lips were already searching his, and the knight had to push his lover away.

"Genesis," emerald eyes sparked with indignation, "this is not the time."

"Why not?" The redhead insisted, not offended by his behavior in the slightest, sliding one slender palm under his shirt.

"It can wait until I understand what had happened…"

"Nothing happened, Seph. It was an accident."

Sephiroth certainly had numerous objections, yet Genesis' hands made it impossible to weave those into coherent threads of thoughts. With a low groan he surrendered his lips to the rough caress, forgetting to breathe in-between, as his redheaded spirited lover pulled him into their bedchambers, having discarded his long indigo cloak and an undershirt between the door and the bed. With a heretofore rarely felt ardor, Sephiroth lifted his slender lover, who leaned all his weight upon him, legs wrapped around his waist, auburn hair cascading over his face as the knight threw his head back to catch wet warmth of his lover's lips anew. Genesis' fingers plunged into his hair, passionately snatching at separate silken tresses.

In a swirl of silver and discarded slough, lovers fell onto the bed, a heated embrace alternating with an outburst of moans on the crumpled sheets.

Genesis' pliancy was a liquid fire storm of untrammeled caress, so hungry as though they haven't been together yesterday or the day before that.

It didn't take long to exhaust his patience, and answering the pleading distorted look on the glistening face of his redhead, Sephiroth completed the throbbing emptiness yet present between their flushed bodies.

The blissful release fell upon them simultaneously, and in the powerful swirl of sharp sensations he no longer wanted to remember or think of anything but the effulgent smile on his lover's tired, yet satiated face and his cheeks suffused with an auroral blush.

Marguerite was forgotten.

* * *

It happened of its own accord. One moment she was staring into the fireplace, paralyzed by mere thought of Genesis divulging her secret to Sephiroth, on the next long sleeve of her dress caught flames, and with some twisted unconcern of her own fate Marguerite watched it engulf her hand. Thereupon hellish pain made itself felt, and she darted away with a harrow shriek that riveted her maiden's attention. The latter quickly poured a basin of cold water over her burning arm, yet the singe hurt, and with her previous mental derangements pain had soon begotten delirium.

Marguerite remembered Sephiroth coming with poignant lucidity, whereas nothing of her words spoken to him lingered in the memory. After the redhead distracted her stepson, she regained some awareness of where she was and sent for father Francis.

Her personal confessor, a Benedictine, came at once, appearing extremely appalled by her state.

"My daughter, what happened to you?" The old man exclaimed with genuine concern, and Marguerite exhaled with relief. She will tell him everything, and, bound by the rules of confession, he will keep her transgressions secret.

"I have sinned, father, and my sins are terrible." For a moment she closed her eyes, like a condemned before an execution, and began talking.

She told him everything, starting from the day of her and Louis' wedding when, walking down the isle, she spotted an angelic face in her future husband's retinue. She confessed how she believed her stepson to be a God's messenger, how she harbored affection towards him that over the years turned to love, then to a wild passion, and finally became an obsession. She recounted how, withering from jealousy, she decided to poison Sephiroth's first wife, a fourteen year old girl by the name of Joan de Bloy, how she dreamt of kissing her stepson instead of God's chosen husband, how she tossed and turned in her bed because of sinful and forbidden desires she nurtured, how she refused to give them up until one day they shared a kiss and that kiss had turned her life into an even worse torture. She didn't stop when time came to talk about her deal with Lorenzo, retelling how she sneaked into his house and paid for the nefarious deal with her body. She ignored the Benedictine's exclamation when with some malign cruelty towards herself told of how she prayed to the Lord, so that Louis' death would be quick and merciful from the longbow arrow, as has been arranged; told of her dreams to marry Sephiroth once he returned from war and make their children the legitimate heirs of the estate. Finally, a wreck in tears, she concluded her tale with the arrival of Louis' corpse and her journey made to search for her wounded stepson. Marguerite didn't keep Sephiroth's secret to herself, having vented her suffering and despair as she discovered his ghastly affair with a renegade Dominican priest he thereupon brought to the castle.

While Marguerite was talking, her lackluster eyes were riveted on the dancing tongues of flames, and in their depths she fancied seeing two silhouettes entwined in sinful delight, engrossed in pleasuring each other, rising and plunging back into crimson abyss with rapturous moans of untrammelled passion. She knew she was seeing _them_, together, as one.

Thereat she was wasted. Dead. All her life lay exposed in its ugliness, her entire soul poured out before an indifferent spectator, and she no longer needed its purposeless burden, having resigned to God's will. If the Benedictine said the Lord wanted her to die, she would have hung herself.

Yet, Francis heard her out silently, with wide from fright eyes, never daring to interrupt even a single time until she spent herself, whereupon said only one phrase, "You have to pray for God's forgiveness, Marguerite, and he will tell you how to cleanse yourself."

She lavishly paid him with gems and gold, and when father Francis left her bedchambers, the daughter of kings felt as though her heart has been cut out of her chest.

There were no dreams, no hope, no love, just darkness.

It was then that Marguerite heard the voice of God for the first time, and God told her how she had to cleanse her family from filthiness and sin, cleanse with suffering, fire and white-hot iron.


	27. Chapter XXVI: Scheme and velleity

**_A/N:_** I am delving into alternative history now, portraying what _could have happened_ should there appear a man strong and independent enough, like Sephiroth, to react differently to numerous defeats. XD

* * *

_**Chapter XXVI.**_

_**Scheme and **__**velleity.**_

"_Hell is full of good meaning and wishes.__" (Russian proverb)._

Just by looking at Sephiroth's face Genesis could tell that the news was inauspicious. The knight has just finished reading one of the two letters which arrived that morning, and the glimmer of anxiety in emerald eyes was as good enough sign as a thin crease on the flawless forehead.

"What happened?"

"Nothing I didn't expect." Howbeit a smile on his lover's face was strained, contradicting the words. Sephiroth twiddled a letter in his fingers ever so gently, a caress the redhead would have preferred to feel on his skin rather than see wasted on the lifeless parchment. "I am, however, compelled to admit that Philippe is a worse fool than I suspected."

The knight rose and with long straddles crossed the room from the bed they were reposing themselves on to the huge fireplace. A faint smell of fresh exquisite perfume touched the redhead's nostrils, making every nerve in his body dither, the sensation only swelling as his eyes followed the smoothly swaying wave of silver hair, and his vivid imagination obediently offered a sweet reminiscence of cool satin tresses flowing around his bare skin. Having pressed his knees to his chest, Genesis watched the knight bend over the hollow in the wall and hold the parchment over the barely gleaming fires until it crumbled away in a waterfall of weightless ash.

"What did the message convey?"

"Edward besieged Calais, and Philippe wasn't able to negotiate. What amuses me most is that they are asking me to join the King's army anew." There was a hint of icy disdain in the knight's deep voice. "Who do they think I am? A brainless idiot? Or a careless adventurer? I barely survived their last _resplendent_ campaign. At times, I feel like human foolishness, not God's wisdom, is infinite. Mine was a guess they would at least be able to negotiate a peace treaty, however disparaging it could have been, yet instead the bloodshed continues. The distraction can still serve to our advantage as they will never see the fatal blow coming." Despite being quiet, his last words rang as a clear threat.

Genesis passed his hand over the scarlet satin robe he was wearing, enjoying the smooth flow of cloth between his fingers and the softness of the snow-white pillow when he leaned back. The redhead was used to live in penury, and finally finding himself surrounded by luxury gave indescribable pleasure.

"Maybe, we should let them believe you are a brainless idiot." He certainly chose a wrong way to insult his lover's brilliance as for a moment the almond-shaped eyes were slits of rage, yet Sephiroth regained his temper in no time.

"You are dangerously close to reading my thoughts. I shall respond, as if I am willing to join in, yet as an excuse adduce the lack of gold to pay to my vassals. I shall make numerous generous promises, however, saying nothing directly. Whereof I conceive, they will know when it will be too late." Emerald eyes sparked brightly as a reflection of an inner thought that occurred to him, and in this state his lover looked the most dangerous. Genesis didn't envy their enemies. "Meanwhile I shall let the rumour we are joining the King's campaign spread, so that our military preparations will not arouse suspicion. Indeed, human foolishness is vast, for they have just helped me find the last missing piece of conundrum."

All previous vacillation gone, Sephiroth hastily neared his desk and picked up a goose quill. Having dipped it in the inkbottle, he began writing, and for a while rustle of a pointed tip on the vellum pages was the only sound heard in their bedchambers.

Genesis stretched himself, and while his lover was engrossed in committing his thoughts to paper, let his own roam freely.

Sephiroth could be blind in certain matters; however, the redhead would grudge a silver coin for a bet that his lover lacked acumen. He could not yet understand what was going on with Marguerite while Genesis had it figured out the moment he heard that she had burnt herself. He nearly told everything there and then, for the redhead understood what power he acquired over the now defenceless woman, and for all that one thought kept his resolve unshakable. They were too far into this scheme already, and losing hope of fulfilling a share of his dreams was not an option. Once everything would be set in motion, he will eventually divulge the secret, but not until he made sure it could not threaten any of their intentions. Aside from Sephiroth accidentally finding it out on his own, there was just one more misgiving which concerned Marguerite herself.

After the incident she acted as though she lost touch with the outside world, prowling about the castle, like a silent gloomy shadow, aimlessly and blindly searching for something. As outspoken as he could be when desired, Genesis was quickly able to get on Kathy's right side, and with caution Marguerite's maiden talked to him about her mistresses' troubles. If Kathy didn't get it wrong, his lover's stepmother started hearing God's voice, and that was the beginning of insanity he knew of so well.

Genesis used to hear those voices himself, he still did, for the crack in his mind created by the auto-da-fe he witnessed when he was seven could not heal, but at least he understood they were not real. They would tell of unimaginable ugliness, attempt to misguide, yet his inner strength and willpower held them at bay, for once he _obeyed_, he was doomed. His personality would be lost, his ability to think shattered, and instead of an audacious young being he was, an old shaking man would be left blindly staring into the void, like Marguerite, searching and searching for something that was never there.

Genesis shuddered at the picture his vivid imagination painted before his eyes with poignant lucidity as such fate was a degradation of the worst kind. He remembered insane monks, driven to utmost despair by the life they led, and their harrowing howls still rang in his ears, so hard it was to forget.

As if staring into the void, he felt mesmerized and horrified at the same time; but then any soul, even Sephiroth's, was a void.

Was it possible to cognize a void?

Having dismissed the thoughts that didn't suit the sunny autumn day, Genesis strolled to his lover, getting tangled in the long flaps of his robe. Sephiroth has already finished writing, and the second letter lay in front of him with broken seals.

Having no desire to read it, Genesis once again inquired, "What does this one say?"

"The Duke of Burgundy decided to grace us with his presence instead of awaiting our arrival." Sephiroth was smirking. "It seems he is even more interested in what I have to say than I first guessed."

Genesis placed a light kiss onto the spot of warm skin, bared between the collar of his lover's robe and a wave of silky silver hair. "What do we do now?"

"We wait."

* * *

It was a clear and cold day, first one in the month of October, when at the gates of Chateau de Thil the herald announced the arrival of the Duke of Burgundy. The news found Sephiroth in his bedchambers in front of a tall mirror his lover held, so that he could see himself in full height.

Sephiroth looked unusually foppish, his refined, yet chary of decorations style abandoned for velvet, silk and jewellery. A dark-green cotardie, over which he wore a polished breastplate, was adorned with rich silver ornament and a chain of similar color glimmered on his broad chest. Usually Sephiroth disliked such pompousness, yet for the occasions like this he knew he would have to choose something as expensive and impressive as the Duke's outerwear will no doubts be. He had to look flawless, as befitted the future King, from the beginning of their conversation making the Duke understand that he would be the one setting rules and conditions of their possible alliance.

His full armour shone in bright sunlight, and sinuous curves of sparks reflected in the mirror, blinding his eyes.

"You know, God himself could have envied your looks right now."

Genesis' words compelled the knight to tear his gaze away from his reflection he was intently studying. "Do you?"

To his teasing a wry smile curved the redhead's lips, a sign he came up with a witty enough answer.

"I am no god."

Sephiroth smirked into the light kiss they exchanged. "Gods or men… essentially there has to be one difference. Gods have to be able to look at their creation through anyone's eyes while we are limited to a single pair." He gently touched Genesis' eyelids with the tip of his fingers. "Imagine how much pettiness would be avoided if I could look at the world at least through one more pair of eyes, yours."

The redhead tilted his head with a gentle smile, "Give me more time, and I will show you."

Time. That was what they lacked and greatly. Sephiroth straightened the last creases on the indigo cloak thrown over his shoulders and gestured towards the bed whereon a dark burgundy cassock was spread. "I would like you to join us at the hunt and later at the feast as father Rhapsodos."

The redhead grimaced, but kept silent. He knew his lover hated wearing cassocks and wigs, but this was not a question of a personal desire although at times Genesis displayed reluctance towards sacrificing his own wishes for what needed to be done. He accepted such necessary sacrifices a lot easier.

"All right, Seph, for you I shall be there, and come what may."

Before letting him leave, the redhead ran a comb through his silver hair for the last time, having provoked a smile. The wind will scatter and tangle it anyways.

In the courtyard a groom waited for him, holding the rein of a young and healthy steed. Its glossy jet-black hair hid underneath the indigo horse cloth he ordered to sew for his new battle stallion. Alber was coming with the Duke's cortege whereat his brother was a page, so the same groom held the stirrups while the knight mounted. Having silently gestured for the rest of the retinue to join him, Sephiroth guided the stallion towards the gates.

He could feel autumn in the air now, see its signs in the withering grass, on the drooping, as if inflamed with the last fervent fires of life, crowns of flowers and trees. The fall stole up furtively, its breath visible in longer nights and light frosts, and the grass turned grey from fog and rime thereafter. A sorrowful guardian hiding in the nebulous realm, the castle often looked woebegone as well, yet that day the clouds dispersed, having bared its summer grandeur.

Having passed the drawbridge, Sephiroth ordered a halt as the horizon line quivered, and thence the sounds of neighing horses were wafted to their ears. His venerable guest was about to arrive, and awaiting him, the viscount remembered what he knew of Odo IV.

The Duchy of Burgundy has always been one of the most powerful and wealthy fiefs in France. Closely related to the Capetian dynasty and thereat possessing hardly any less power than the King himself, the Dukes quickly ingratiated themselves with the French throne and enjoyed numerous privileges even after the monarchy gained more strength and unity. The current Duke, Odo IV, was Philippe's favourite for a while, especially after helping his stepfather win the first war in Flanders, yet with the recent events which included the siege of Calais, a city in Artois he inherited, having married Joan de Bourgogne, Sephiroth had all the reasons to believe Odo was dissatisfied with the King's actions. Perhaps, being not strong or bold enough, he decided against taking any measures, however, together their power was sufficient to bring the weakened French crown to its knees.

His ancestral coat of arms, a proudly flying banner with a blue and yellow striped shield edged with red, could be seen from afar. Astride, his posture as though chiselled from the impeccable marble, Sephiroth waited by the gates until the Duke's retinue could be clearly seen and only then touched the rein, urging his mount forward.

They met in the middle of the road, a man in his early fifties with a nonetheless rich flaming-red beard, equally fiery hair streaked with white, and piercing-grey eyes and a young viscount in a halo of inhumanly long and silken silver; they met as equals, for Sephiroth carried himself as the King's bastard. The bows they exchanged were curt and expressed esteem rather than any desire to serve or adulate.

"Please, accept my condolence for your stepfather's death, Viscount du Bugey." Odo offered politely and rather formally to his content, which made it possible to accept the words with just a graceful nod.

"I am glad to welcome you to my house, Odo of Burgundy." Sephiroth was no less formal, intently studying the cheerful face of his ally to be. Both were aware that the meaningful conversation will be held later and alone. The question that was thrashing about the cage of emerald eyes was whether the knight could trust the Duke, and only time could answer that one.

Side by side, they continued towards Chateau de Thil, exchanging rather meaningless replicas about the hunting season for boars and vixen and that year's harvest. When they reached the inner gates, Sephiroth alighted and entrusted his steed to the care of grooms.

"I hope you will join me for the hunt later," a faint smile hid in the corners of thin lips, and the Duke understood it. Having beckoned a servant, Viscount du Bugey ordered him to take Odo to his quarters and thereupon found Alber in the obstreperous crowd of his and the Duke's retinues.

"Messire," the pale youth clung to his steel-clad fingers with his lips, "it's good to be home."

A boy akin to his squire, yet younger and more cheerful, stood therebeside, timidly shifting from foot to foot, and looking at Jean, Sephiroth suddenly realized how Alber changed after the war, and that the change was irreversible.

Something like that happened to him, but a long time ago.

Having placed his hand onto his squire's shoulder and ignoring the shiver, the knight headed for the donjon doors.

"Were you able to find out what I asked of you?"

Alber's face remained serious, "Of course, messire. Milord Duke is dissatisfied with the King's inability to defend Calais and the latter's meddling in his ancestral lands. That is why he responded to your call so quickly. You are very wise, messire, for I believe you will not find a better ally in all France."

Sephiroth nodded to himself; he let Alber into his plans, knowing that the youth will be on his side, and herein he was right. He always drew satisfaction from making a correct choice. Over the years even his stepfather kept repeating that he had a perfect mind of a strategist.

Together they ascended the stairs to his bedchambers.

"I heard you had a talk with Genesis."

Alber cast down his eyes to watch the motley carpet as though in embarrassment, which would not have surprised Sephiroth, yet it wasn't shame this time. It was something else. "To be honest, messire, I felt I had to talk to Genesis, otherwise it would have been hard for me to accept him as a part of my life. Now he has my trust as much as you do."

It was said so simply and still carried a lot more with it, for Alber's devotion meant his life, and willingness to sacrifice it for his redheaded lover spoke of more than any pretty words his squire could come up with.

After all, Sephiroth himself was a man of deeds, not words.

By the door to his bedchambers they halted, and the silver-haired viscount dismissed his squire. "Make sure the hounds are prepared and report when the forest warden rouses a wild boar."

With those words he flung the door open to find Genesis ready as he had told him to, yet the look on his lover's face he was greeted with seemed far from placid.

"I am not going hunting, don't even ask me to," with annoyed gesture the redhead pulled down the cassock girded with a goldish cord. "Have you ever heard of such a thing as priests chasing a wild boar?"

"As you wish," Sephiroth didn't insist, "but I am expecting your presence at the feast."

Genesis lazily leaned against the desk and looked down with a sly smile, following the tip of his pointed boot with his eyes as it aimlessly drew circles on the carpet.

"Do you want me to show how much a priest can drink?"

Sephiroth nearly burst into heartfelt laughter at that image, for indeed rumour had it that abbots were the worst drunkards in all known realm. A scoff easily passed his lips, yet a rather lenient one this time, "Humph, only as long as you maintain your decorum."

Thereupon Sephiroth removed the cloak and the breastplate. It was time to change into clothes suitable for hunting.

… Alber kept his promise, in half an hour having announced that the forest warden finally roused a boar, and the whole effervescent, clad in variegated colors crowd gathered by the drawbridge. Among it the Duke's garments stood out, their deep burgundy and red shades a contrast to silver, black and green of the viscount's no less luxurious outerwear. At some distance huntsmen held the sinewy hounds on the leashes, and their eager, ringing bay filled the crystalline air. A forest barren of leaves could be seen in the distance, its trees shooting their twisted branches upwards as claws in the eternal incomprehensible threat to the skies.

This time, it will not be hard to track down a boar.

The cavalcade immediately set out after the last nobles joined it; the horns stroke up a merry tune soon joined by the loud barking as the hounds came upon the tracks of a boar, and the ground shook underneath dozens of galloping horses. Having adjusted a short hunting spear, Sephiroth shot an unnoticeable look at the castle, as though expecting to see his lover in the window of his bedchambers, and urged his impatient steed after the Duke's.

It was Genesis' idea to flatter Odo's ego by letting him slay the boar, not that Sephiroth wanted that _honor_ for himself. The knight found little entertainment in killing animals, always feeling slight disdain towards the flushed nobles chasing a bloodied doe or a stag, however some rules of the French aristocratic society were not for him to change or even challenge.

The barking was heard from far ahead now, his hounds' grey and brown shadows flickering in the bare bushes like bolts of lightning. The dogs were let loose from the leashes, and now the whole pack was resolutely leading them into the depths of forest. He hasn't seen the boar yet, but, judging by the barking, the beast was close.

The crowd scattered, numerous bright cloaks were flapping in the wind, and it was hard to tell who was who, so from the very beginning of the chase Sephiroth tried to stick with the Duke.

The boar showed up suddenly. Sephiroth's steed leapt over the wide trunk of the fallen tree, and from above the viscount noticed the dark-grey back of their prey. The huge animal charged through the thicket, like a battering ram, treading grass and twigs in the ground. Blood was trickling down the enormous yellow fangs of what seemed to be an old and wise animal. Just as Sephiroth looked, one of the hounds jumped onto the boar's neck, or rather tried to, inasmuch as the beast shook its head, and with a deafening yelp the pure-bred dog flew sideways, like a rag doll. The fangs have ripped up its abdomen, leaving the entrails hanging from the wound. It crawled another three or thereby steps, and, dolefully whimpering, froze in a heap of glossy brown hair.

The ferocious wild boar wasn't giving up its life without a fight, however hopeless it might have seemed to the silver-haired viscount.

The short lance he threw at the beast missed. Sephiroth wasn't as good with missile weapons as he was with the sword, notably sitting on the back of a flushed horse. Alber was still keeping up with him, so he gestured for his squire to blow his horn to call for the rest of the cavalcade. The youth did so at once, and the first one, whom Sephiroth saw approaching, was the Duke himself. The steel-grey eyes, framed in a halo of flaming-red hair, were burning with excitement.

Meanwhile, the boar was finally trapped on the narrow glade between the small crowd, which stretched alongside the line of trees, and the pack of hounds. They learned the lesson, keeping aloof from the prey and encouraging themselves with low, malign growls.

It was due to a tacit content that none of the nobles intervened when Odo rode out, slowly, yet resolutely urging his frightened, snorting steed towards the prey. The boar was tired, its sides were heaving with much ado, yet in the small eyes, tinged with yellow, rancour was gleaming - pure, unmarred rancour towards the two-legged creatures who dared to commote it. Sephiroth should have seen it coming, but realized what was happening only when, grunting loudly, the beast darted off and ferociously attacked the horse. Frightened, the steed pranced before the Duke of Burgundy had time to pierce the beast's aorta or another vital organ. Having inclined its head like a stubborn man, the wild boar deeply plunged its fangs into the equine croup.

Neighing loudly, the steed tumbled down, blood gushing from the holes in its abdomen, and its struggling croup weighed down against Odo's body. Before the nobles recovered, the boar pounced at the horse. The paling Duke tried to grope for a small axe, yet his hand was immobilized by the weight of his own faithful steed.

Sephiroth was the first one to regain his self-mastery.

"Alber, your lance!"

His squire understood and obeyed the curt order without hesitation, having passed him the short spear the silver-haired viscount caught in the air and, wasting no time to aim carefully, threw into the animal's hulk. The lance stuck in the boar's side, having enraged the beast more than wounded. Leaving the motionless, bleeding croup of a horse, it riveted its narrow slits of eyes on the insolent human, for a moment quiescent, sputtering shreds of vapor and drops of blood with every breath. In its motionlessness it was ugly, in its strange splendour it was captivating, the fervour of its hopeless struggle so akin to his own on the battlefield of Crecy. The next instant the delusion shattered as the boar darted towards the silver-haired horseman.

A man met a beast. A man battled the beast.

A man won.

Having bared his bastard sword, the viscount urged his steed towards the advancing boar, abruptly changing direction instants before the encounter, and, having swung his arm so that the flamboyant curve drew a coldly flaring semicircle, beheaded the beast amain. Spilling cold dirt with its hooves, his steed pranced as the knight swiftly drew the rein before they cut into the pack and scattered the hounds. Holding his silver hair back with his right hand, with his left Sephiroth wiped the carmine blade on his pants and threw it into the scabbard with ease, perfected by frequent practice.

Startled cries arose in the throng, which, however, soon were ousted by cheers. Having gracefully alighted, Sephiroth neared Odo and helped him free his legs from the stirrups. Miraculously, his guest got away with just slight cuts and bruises.

"Thank you, Viscount du Bugey."

The color has already returned to the redheaded man's face, and with an equally wry smile on thin lips Sephiroth stretched out his arm to help the Duke rise. "Welcome to Chateau de Thil, milord."

The accident with the Duke notwithstanding, the cavalcade returned to the castle high-spirited, boisterously discussing the events at the hunt. Upon arrival, the boar's carcass and head were passed to the cooks, and preparations for the feast began.

…When, having changed his clothing to the fresh pair of silver cotardie and pants, Sephiroth came down to the knight's hall, the nobles have already gathered therein, chattering cheerfully and drinking wine already put on the table. Exchanging nods and curt greetings, he made his way through the throng to where his lover stood. With a pious expression Sephiroth found rather amusing the redhead gave him a blessing, and although they could share nothing but a warm smile, it was enough for him.

Thereafter Sephiroth took his seat at the head of the table under the canopy with his stepfather's – and now his own – ancestral coat of arms. He noticed the absence of his stepmother, but she was sick lately, and the only times they saw each other were during his brief visits.

Odo sat to his right, having occupied a place of the most venerable guest. Once everyone settled down and the servants brought in the first course, which this time included different dishes from the hog's meat, he rose with a toast.

"Noble sires," heretofore Sephiroth didn't pay it much heed, but then realised that there was not a single woman present in the hall during the feast. The gathering resembled a war council. "I would like to raise my cup for the gallant and valorous knight who, I do not shun it, saved my life today. I admit that boar nearly got me, and it is for this man's prowess that I am able to share this cup with you." A heavy palm of a warrior settled on his shoulder. "All hail Sephiroth!"

The hall repeated as one, "All hail Sephiroth!" and Genesis, sitting a little below the dais, raised his goblet to the toast. Emerald eyes sparkled vividly as for a moment he could see the knight's hall in the king's residence in Paris and hear the same toast pronounced in his name as though he was already a king.

"I appreciate the candour, milord." Sephiroth hid his refulgent gaze in a wave of silver and tasted his wine. The old duke just smiled at him, and the knight once again realised that the fate has just given him another gift.

The feast began. The plethora of food and exquisiteness of the atmosphere didn't disappoint anyone present there. There was music played, and when the servants brought the second course the tables were literally crammed with food and fruit. There was little more to tell of it, only that soon most guests were drunk, and the quiet conversation turned into loud jokes and bursts of laughter that dashed around the bright-lit knight's hall as sprightly birds.

The silver-haired viscount didn't drink much, and neither did the Duke. From time to time the old duke shot meaningful glances at him, as though awaiting a signal, a sign, anything that would signify they were about to take their leave. It was obvious Odo understood that Viscount du Bugey didn't seek to meet him out of idle courtesy.

The feast was still in its prime when Sephiroth swept the knight's hall with calm eyes and, seeing that most of the nobles were drunk enough, turned to face his venerable guest.

"My apologies, I meant to ask about your journey from Dijon before, but with all the following troubles forgot to."

It was a sign they both understood. Odo nodded with a seemingly weary grin, "I must admit it went well, despite the current unrest in the lands, yet I am rather tired, viscount. Would you mind escorting me to my chambers?"

"Certainly, not."

Sephiroth beckoned Alber to move his chair aside and rose with an unnoticeable gesture meant for his lover. To his satisfaction Genesis noticed and, having excused himself from the small talk he was engrossed in before, headed for the back door while they ascended the main stairs. As it was previously agreed between them, the redhead was to listen to their conversation, hiding in the adjoined room. Sephiroth knew that the Duke would be suspicious, and thereat as though unwittingly showed him they were alone before his lover had time to reach the room.

Once the door to his bedchambers closed, Odo's facade changed from cheerful, somewhat drunken placidity to strained anxiety. Nervously tapping his fingers on the wall, he inquired, "I believe you didn't request to meet me just for the hunt and the feast, did you, Viscount du Bugey?"

Sephiroth calmly sustained the penetrating gaze of steel-grey eyes that belonged to one of the most powerful men in France.

"Hardly, milord." Bluntly blurting out his intentions would have achieved nothing; the conversation had to go as subtly and as smoothly as possible, so Sephiroth began in a runabout way. "Among other things, I meant to talk about the current situation on our battlefront."

The reaction was the one he anticipated, eager, even if still cautious interest. Sephiroth couldn't say he was calm himself, yet outwardly his face was as though chiselled from pure marble, and only emerald eyes lived its own life, sparkling and dimming in time with words spoken in deep reassuring voice. He might be a bad adulator, yet when it came to diplomacy, he was eloquent and outspoken enough.

"Are you talking about the recent siege of Calais?"

"That and Crecy, to be exact." With an elegant gesture he pointed to the comfortable armchair. "But do have a seat, milord. The conversation will be long." While the Duke was taking up on his offer, Sephiroth leaned against the desk, arms folded and legs crossed, his pose chosen so that it allowed him to watch his possible ally's face. It was a dangerous cat and mouse game with French cheese in the mousetrap.

"I am listening, viscount," Odo smoothed out his beard and eagerly leaned forward. Sephiroth lingered for an instant, watching the laces on his silver cotardie, his head declined on his chest, and then resolutely brushed his doubts aside.

"I battled at Crecy, was mortally wounded, so when I say that Philippe and his cautiousness caused France a lot of avoidable trouble, I know whereof I speak." He didn't say 'foolishness', for it was a little too early for such frankness. "Whenas I heard that the war didn't end with our devastating defeat whereat victory was more than possible to achieve, whenas I heard that Calais was besieged, I understood that exigent measures had to be taken."

Odo shrugged with carefully chosen indifference, "What measures are you talking about, Sephiroth? Do you have a plan to free Calais? If so, you have my word I shall join your forces."

"It depends on your answer to my question, Odo." Their eyes met, and the Duke lowered his first.

"Ask away, Sephiroth, ask away. You saved my life, after all."

"What if I say I want to make the changes permanent, will you stand by my side?"

The Duke of Burgundy knitted his eyebrows. "Permanent? How? Are you… are you talking about the dynasty change?"

"Perhaps," Sephiroth's reply lacked any emotion, "but remember that you mentioned claiming the French throne yourself. I said no such thing."

The redheaded duke suddenly burst into loud laughter, amusing the knight to excess, yet the heartfelt merriment immediately diffused the tension. "Oh, I might have said it, but you implied it from the beginning, didn't you? Let us be honest, Sephiroth. I am dissatisfied with Philippe's politics and behavior. After the Englishmen lay siege to my city in Artois, I have constantly been denied my rights to rule on my feud, and it is his meddle I find most dissatisfying. It seems he forgot that those are _my_ lands, even if I am his vassal."

"I understand." That he did. The Duke was more interested in his lands than in the fate of France, however, the viscount didn't invite Odo for the discussion of morals. His motives being far from selfless, Sephiroth did not wish to waste time, playing a hypocrite. "Rest assured, your rights shall be fully restored."

Odo grinned widely, pouring himself a glass of wine. "How can I trust you? I am too old to become a king, not that I want to trouble myself with attempts to win the title in the first place. Thou hast someone else in mind, on whose behalf those words are spoken. Name him."

Sephiroth's reply rang icily, "I speak on no one's behalf, but my own," and the Duke's face immediately turned serious.

"You have no rights to become a King, and even if you have my support, you cannot win. The Pope in Avignon, or any other archbishop for that matter, will refuse to crown you."

Sephiroth lifted his head, allowing a faint smirk to curl the edges of his lips. Opaque, enigmatic darkness swirled in his emerald eyes, for the feeling was close to elation as though this was the moment he had waited for his whole life. "I am an illegitimate son of Philip the Handsome, and I do have the rights to claim the French throne, even if they have to be proved by force. If," he forestalled the anticipated question, "you want proof, you will have to seal our alliance."

A goose quill and a clean vellum page appeared before Odo's eyes.

For the next minute that seemed to be an eternity the quiescence was interrupted only by the crackling of wood in the fireplace. Their eyes met in a silent duel as each one was asking himself whether the other could be trusted, but Odo lost anew, having picked it up the quill and written an oath he thereupon signed and sealed with his personal seal.

"You understand that if you decide to betray me, I shall deny everything," the Duke of Burgundy added after the vellum page disappeared in Sephiroth's desk, to which the knight in silver gracefully shrugged.

"With no less clarity than if you betray me, we are going down together."

It was the risk they both agreed to take.

Thereupon the viscount neared a small nightstand by his bed and, having pressed a secret button, revealed the contents he had never shown to anyone else, Genesis included. It was a letter his stepfather wrote, swearing on the Bible that Sephiroth was the son of Philip the Handsome, which was signed by the dead king's personal advisor, and a small golden cross with his name on it wrapped in a blanket adorned with a French lily. Sephiroth heard a faint exclamation behind his back, and it betrayed the Duke's astonishment better than any words. Odo recognized the attributes only king's sons received upon birth. Long fingers gently touched the smooth golden surface as Sephiroth passed the cross to his ally, once again wondering whether his mother, a mysterious woman by the name of Jenova, gave him such a strange name Genesis would no doubt find symbolic.

While the Duke was studying the proof he adduced, Sephiroth thoughtfully stared into the hollow, his mind on his birth mother until Odo's voice helped him out of the reverie.

"I believe you." Then the Duke suddenly rose and bowed, having added, "Your Majesty," with reverence that sent a shiver through his body, a white-hot flare, to which his shoulders haughtily straightened and his head tilted with grace.

"You may go, Odo." Sephiroth replied in a barely heard whisper. His heart was loudly pounding in his chest as though about to break free. Was it… was it who he was destined to become?

Sephiroth didn't notice the Duke's departure or Genesis' appearance, and only when his lover's warm hand slipped into his did the hollow in front of his eyes took clear contours of smiling cerulean eyes.

Having shaken his head to dismiss the visions that were still hard to comprehend completely, he returned to the matters at hand.

"So… what do you think, Genesis?"

The redhead pondered over his question for a moment, having concluded with a weary hang of the head on one side and a sweet yawn he tried to suppress. "He has his own game, but for now we can trust him."

Sephiroth nodded, agreeing that it was enough and, perhaps, even more than he could have hoped for.

* * *

Alber was cleaning a huge copper basin in the kitchen when his younger brother slipped through the door. The feast has already ended, most nobles were asleep, but the youth found strange satisfaction in helping one of the girls in the kitchen. The moonlight seemed emollient, and he knew this way he wouldn't be seeing any more of those inappropriate dreams that left him aghast or ashamed of himself.

The basin was greasy and the dirt hurt his hands, but it was better than seeing the angelic form of his lord rising above the crimson abyss of raging flames. Anything was better than seeing him naked. Anything. Anything.

Alber began rubbing dirty sides with frantic zeal, scraping his hands to blood.

A narrow palm settled on his shoulder, and the youth flinched, having let go of the basin and it rolled on the floor with metallic clang.

"You shouldn't scare me like that, Jean."

His younger brother who used to be like his second reflection grinned, yet his grin faded as he saw it woke no response on squire's face.

"I came to talk to you, Alber. We haven't seen each other for ages, and then you suddenly come, so changed, so wounded. What happened?"

"A lot, Jean." He looked at his bleeding hands. "Maybe, too much."

"You sound so-o-o pessimistic."

"Wouldn't you?" He inquired with adult bitterness. "You have never been there; you have never seen what I have, the bloodshed, the cruelty, the dishonour."

"Where?"

"At Crecy," he replied nearly soundlessly. 'I killed a man there, Jean, and then another one, all for him, for messire Sephiroth. If I didn't, he would have died. It doesn't help, but I keep repeating that I had to. I had to." Fingers clutching his brother's cotardie, Alber suddenly screamed. "I had to!" Tears streamed down his pale cheeks, and his brother awkwardly pressed his trembling body to his own. Alber, however, could no longer stop speaking. "God will punish my master for his sins, I know, but I do not care any more. I will stand between him and God if need be, but what can a helpless thing like me do? What will change even if I give my life for him? Nothing, Jean, I understand it now with such hopeless clarity. Nothing will alter the path he is taking. Nothing will save him from hell."

"You think too much, Alber. Like we used to, we just have to pray together, and He will give an answer you are looking for."

The youth suddenly forced a rueful smile. "You pray, Jean, for I cannot." To the incomprehensive look, Alber hugged his brother tightly and repeated. "Pray for us both."


	28. Chapter XXVII: Love and punishment

**_A/N:_** _**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Calais_ – an important port in the Northern France.

* * *

_**Chapter XXV**__**II.**_

_**Love and punishment.**_

"_All pain is a punishment, and every punishment is inflicted for love as much as for justice." (Unknown author)._

The feeling was as though Genesis was looking into hellish slits, the scarlet eyes of a hound so close to his own he thought he would drown in rage and rancour heretofore unseen. The slime was hot and, dripping onto his skin, left scorching marks. Straining his last strength, Genesis closed his fingers around the hound's neck, yet all his efforts barely kept the beast – its claws, teeth, and hateful eyes – at an arm's length.

He needed to kill it, to smother it, the beast within himself, and the beast above himself.

Suddenly someone's fingers unclenched his, the hell's hound leapt forward, shattering the nightmare, and instead of scarlet slits Genesis was left drowning in pain-filled emerald voids. Only then the redhead noticed his fingers were firmly clenched around his lover's slender neck, Sephiroth's hands on his wrists, and, still conquered by slumber, the knight was struggling to keep him at a distance.

As though having burnt himself, Genesis leapt up aghast and, legs tangled in the thin blanket, fell by Sephiroth's side anew. His lover doubled up, coughing, and all the redhead could see from behind were his shuddering shoulders in a cocoon of faintly glistening silver hair.

The beast… Sephiroth… he was trying to kill the beast, not his lover… why? Why would he kill the only person he loved?

"Genesis… what were… you… doing?" The words were a hurt accusation barely heard between laboured breaths.

He hid his distorted by despair face in his palms, fingers painfully snatching at the auburn tresses, "I am sorry, Sephiroth, I… I don't know what has gotten into me… I wasn't thinking…" It was easy to ask his forgiveness now, natural, no feelings of shame or uneasiness following, no fear of being forsaken, for love was an epiphany, and it opened his eyes to many little truths. "I was dreaming…"

With his last words Sephiroth finally turned, and through slits between his fingers the redhead saw genuine concern in emerald eyes, not the ire he expected, and tiny marks his hands left on immaculate skin made Genesis feel even worse. Sephiroth should have been angry, but he wasn't. Why?

"What you were dreaming about… does it have anything to do with that battle near Crecy?" His lover inquired in a thoughtful voice, as if alluding to something he experienced on his own. Genesis nodded, still hiding his face, as though afraid it will betray something the knight wasn't supposed to know.

Why wasn't Sephiroth supposed to know? Genesis could have told his lover anything, bare the bottomless void his soul was, take the knight through the fires that burnt him, so what wasn't Sephiroth supposed to see now? With a faint groan he tore the palms away from his face with a pained expression frozen on it, as though he was tearing the skin together with his hands.

"You cannot remember it because you were unconscious, but when I found you…" Genesis made an effort to continue, "you were almost dead. I still remember your face, the very lifeless mask it was, as though belonging to a waxen doll, not you. There was nothing left of a person you are now, just a mask…" the redhead was trembling now, and in semi-darkness, silvered with moonlight and reddened with crimson glow of dying embers, Sephiroth was gazing at him as if cutting to the very heart with that gaze. His lover said nothing, didn't move an inch, just lay and listened to the stream of words that kept passing Genesis' lips, at times incoherent as if he was about to gush. "I've seen so much death in my life after my mother was burnt and then my first Dominican preceptor followed, that to me it is just a part of natural cycle. People come and go, and I linger, like an accursed. I would have accepted your death with time as well, and it wasn't even losing you that horrified me as much as understanding that I was wrong and exactly _how_ wrong I was before. In my arrogance I was blind," the sound on his lips resembled a laugh, unreturned, unshared, and darkness swallowed it too soon. "You know, it is not easy to admit that I lived a whole life bereft of sight, but I accepted it and that is why I am here. Even if it destroys me, I shall not leave."

"Destroy you? I do not understand…" Sephiroth whispered, startled, and Genesis convulsively clutched his lover's hand.

"We are cursed, Sephiroth, blessed and cursed at the same time. If we were ordinary, we would have lived our own peaceful lives, had children, and died in our own beds when legs could no longer hold us up. Seeing the dawn before everyone else does is not just a blessing. Before I met you, I thought it was. I erred, and not only thereat." Genesis could no longer read his lover as before, but the need to continue, to say it all engulfed him with no less strength than passion of their love. "I thought vengeance was all I could aspire for, that the pinnacle of my triumph was a ruin, but now I see, as clearly as I see your face, that it is seeing the world changed, reborn, renewed, I craved for, and that this desire was in me forever. Hitherto I simply suppressed it, persuaded myself to a point when I could no longer feel it. Hatred aside, I felt nothing." Sephiroth was quiescent, and it seemed he didn't even blink. "Why are you silent?"

A smile, like a first snowdrop on the white endless linen of winter, a flare of silver in depths he rarely let anyone notice, let alone explore or love, and words, their always terse, familiar simplicity, left him breathless and befuddled. "I see it now."

Genesis shook his head, still unable to understand, "See what?"

"The world through your eyes."

* * *

The morning of the day whereon the departure of the Duke of Burgundy was due turned out misty and warm. It rained the night before, and the castle servants couldn't light the main fireplace, for the wood was damp. Sephiroth came down to the knight's hall slightly shivering from the chill, despite having put on a warm cotardie.

Alber's brother opened the heavy door guarded by two mailed infantryman, and the knight stepped into the hall, having changed at once. During their secret meetings the Duke addressed him with reverence that befitted the future King, something Sephiroth was easily getting used to. It felt as though this is how it was meant to be from the very beginning of his life, and with each day Sephiroth had less and less doubts about the decision he made.

To create something new, the old ways had to be sacrificed. To give place to the new order, the old one had to die, and death was never painless.

Odo was in a mood to be benign, and he was as well, the strange dream Genesis had the night before notwithstanding. Servants left enough hot food to satisfy the most whimsical of all gourmands, so the breakfast began in the most cheerful manner.

"How was the night, Odo?"

The Duke smoothed his beard with a smile. "Better than most, which give me back pain at times, especially in winter, Your Majesty." As of lately, Sephiroth got used to hearing the title to a point when he didn't need a moment's hesitation to acknowledge it was he who was being addressed. The silver-haired viscount raised a full glass of wine with a rather lenient smirk, and they drank. "When dost thou intend to start the campaign?"

Sephiroth nodded to the map of France spread on the table below the dais. "Suffice it to say, I want to see my troops ready by the beginning of November. During this month I am going to fortify my castle and raise a small, mobile army whereupon we will attack Philippe's or Edward's regiments depending on the state of matters. Personally, I believe nothing will change much, but deciding on the campaign now is unwise at best."

"Your Majesty displays an astute perception of matters, and it is something I couldn't see in Philippe." Odo looked more than pleased, and whether his satisfaction had to do with Sephiroth's acumen or else, the knight did not wish to know. "Once Edward is dislodged and forced to return to London, the Valois family will have almost no one to rely upon, so to crush Philippe won't take much effort." He lowered his eyes with a sly grin. "There are not many adherents still loyal to the French King, and any wise king understands the value of good servants. I can only hope that Your Majesty won't forget about the modest favour I will do for you."

Sephiroth frowned, as always disliking to be reminded of being beholden to anyone, yet without allies he would never win that war.

"I do not forget favours, Odo," the coldness in his voice was enough to cause the smile on Duke's face to disappear, and for a while they ate in silence. From where he sat Sephiroth could see a scrape of cloudy skies, and the sight begot thoughts of how much he had to do before the cold will finally reign over nature.

Aside from building another tower, gathering weapons and troops, he had to choose those most loyal from his household who would serve as his marshals and closest advisors, those he could let into his intentions without fear of being betrayed which, as tiresome as it was, behoved him to trust no one. Genesis and his shrewd understanding of human nature will prove invaluable in this uneasy undertaking. Speaking of Genesis, it was time to introduce his lover to the Duke with proper formality.

There were no servants allowed in the knight's hall during his meals with the Duke, so Sephiroth used a tiny bell to call for one.

"Find father Rhapsodos and tell I wish to see him at once." The menial bowed and disappeared, leaving him with Odo one on one anew. The old Duke didn't seem to like the thought someone else was going to join them.

"Are you sure, we can trust him?" He even forgot to add the reverent title 'Your Majesty' the viscount had yet to earn.

"He is my personal confessor," Sephiroth assured his ally with a wry smile, "he knows more than anyone else in the castle, and, being as educated as he is, can offer invaluable help. If I didn't trust him, I certainly wouldn't keep him in that position."

Odo sighed with relief, "I trust Your Majesty has an astute mind to choose his allies, but I would yet warn against choosing too many."

"I shall remember your words, Odo of Burgundy," it was a befitting and polite answer, and Sephiroth set his choice on it.

Viscount du Bugey moved the plate aside, having finished the meal, when the servant let his lover though the doors of the knight's hall. Genesis' confident stride seemed to have impressed Odo at once, and if he wanted to, the redhead could behave with no less solemnity than the Pope himself. His graceful yet bereft of servility bow would have made any court fop turn green with envy, and charm in manners together with innate eloquence made it hard not to feel immediate sympathy towards him. Only Sephiroth knew what devil hid underneath the beguiling façade.

"Milord," his lover's lush lips gently brushed against his hand, then the Duke's, "I am more than honored to meet my liege's ally."

"Likewise…" a brief silence ensued, and Sephiroth used it to introduce his lover.

"Genesis."

"Likewise, Genesis," Odo repeated and gestured for the redhead to take a seat.

"Thank you, milord."

Sephiroth knew that speaking like that was a hard blow to his redhead's pride, but Genesis agreed to help him. Such was the price and, however unfair it seemed, it wasn't the hardest one to pay.

"I take it that you are familiar with the intentions we share," it seemed Odo had wariness in abundance.

"Very much so," the smile on the redhead's lips was pleasant, his voice – a charming melody. "Know that… His Majesty confided me in his most clandestine plans, so with me you can speak freely, milord. I am here to help both of you in any way I can, even though I cannot promise any support from the clergy. I am just a humble Dominican brother, by the will of our Lord chosen to assist my liege with all my modest abilities."

Sephiroth shook his head, once again amazed how well the redhead could act when he wanted to. At times like this nothing in his lover resembled the defiant and brilliant person he was with the knight one on one.

"Very well, I can see that," Odo nodded approvingly, and turned to face the silver-haired viscount. "As I informed you before, I am going to leave your hospitable house today, Your Majesty, to prepare for the battles to come. My letters will arrive to Chateau de Thil each week, and in them I will do my best to keep you abreast of the latest developments. My spies at the king's court will watch the situation on the battlefield and bring me most reliable news from Calais…"

Suddenly the door at the furthest end of the hall flung open, and Alber dashed through it, having halted by the wooden leaves and bowed consecutively, first to the Duke and then to Sephiroth.

"Messire, I received exigent news," the youth blurted out before the viscount had time to express his dissatisfaction. "The ambassadors of His Majesty Edward the Third are approaching and will arrive early on the morrow."

The three plotters exchanged rather confused glances, each one guessing what their enemy could possibly want from the regent of Nevers and Flanders and how it might influence the scheme they conceived.

"I appreciate the news, Alber," with a curt gesture Sephiroth dismissed his squire and returned to the conversation interrupted by the youth. It didn't take him much time to decide what to do next. "The unexpected turn of events, however, is not going to change anything in our plan, only I will ask Odo to be present during my negotiations with my brother's ambassadors."

It was common for the kings, even of unrelated bloodlines, to refer to each other as to brothers out of courtesy, despite their countries being at war.

"I will certainly be more than happy to serve Your Majesty." That Sephiroth trusted him even in such small matters obviously flattered the Duke. "I shall delay my departure until my services are no longer required."

That being settled, there was nothing left to talk about before Edward's ambassadors arrived, so Sephiroth decided to postpone the discussion of other matters until the next day. Having risen from the table, the Duke took his leave, and the knight went with him to show his new ally the stables while Genesis retreated to his bedchambers.

So far, everything was going smoothly, too smoothly if one asked Sephiroth, and he was expecting flaws to appear any day.

The trouble came, however, from the last person he expected to stand in his way.

* * *

At times Marguerite thought she heard the voice clearly and understood precisely what he ordered her to do, but then the meaning would suddenly be lost, leaving her with endless questions. What did she need to do to satisfy God? Did God still love her? If she obeyed him, would He forgive her family?

She was sick that day and couldn't journey to Nevers, so she sent the only man she could truly trust, that ugly peasant Loki she took under her wing, to Lorenzo's house, having requested his presence. Until Marguerite understood what God wanted of her, she had to comply with Genesis' demands, and that she did, having secretly received the Lombard in her bedchambers first thing after the dinner with the Duke of Burgundy.

Lorenzo came although in her letter she revealed nothing but hints at something exigent, and she knew he would be dissatisfied, just as she was, having remembered the night they spent together. But, somehow, her memories seemed vague, and aside from the voice of God, little bore significance any longer. The Lombard's presence, whereat earlier she would have felt disgust, was now accompanied by indifference of a kind only souls unconcerned with their fate felt. She was God's tool now, above the world and its laws, wasn't she?

The voice inside her remained silent.

Lorenzo didn't even bother bowing, his sleek face showing noting but vexation as he swiftly entered her room and discarded his dark cloak.

"Why did you send for me, Marguerite? I thought we agreed not to meet again."

"We did," she replied lifelessly, having surprised even the cold, self-seeking bastard Lorenzo always was. "But the circumstances changed, and someone from _your_ household talked. Who and why, I don't wish to know, but a person in my castle found out exactly what we did."

As she talked, the Lombard's expression was changing from indifferent to frightened, to finally spiteful.

"I knew it wouldn't end well," Lorenzo spat out with barely controlled anger, "but, tell me, why would I want to concern myself with your troubles?"

"My troubles?" Marguerite uttered a hollow laugh, which echoed loudly in the vast room, as she reclined on the soft pillow. The injured hand still hurt, especially when she moved. "You are as guilty as I am. Do you think Sephiroth will forgive you for his father's death? He will hunt you down and then kill without a second thought or remorse, while all I can expect is an exile to the monastery." Another mirthless laugh followed those words, for Lorenzo did not know – and could not know – that an exile to her was worse than death, an irony only she could see, she and the voice inside her. God was watching over his faithful daughter. "Do you want Sephiroth to know about our crime?"

Finally, with some twisted satisfaction Marguerite watched the merchant's face turn ashen, as if he was about to faint; and it wasn't just satisfaction drawn from knowing she triumphed over the cold, foppish Lombard. It was the delight in knowing that her stepson was so feared among the commoners and these sleek Italian parvenus that only his name mentioned together with a threat could make them drop their lame, supercilious masks.

"I take it as no," she continued, for Lorenzo seemed unable to utter a single word in response. "Did you bring money I mentioned in the letter?"

The Lombard only nodded, still fighting fright with hubris, however, rather unsuccessfully, for his voice lacked the usual confidence as he began to speak anew. "Cursed be the day when I met you." In a swift movement he hurled the weighty bag of gold onto her bed. "How can I be sure the word doesn't get out…"

"You can't," she traversed calmly, the indifference being a pale shade of emptiness inside her, "but if you don't do it, you can be certain Sephiroth _will_ know."

"If I find out it is your trickery…"

She shrugged him off, "You won't, for I didn't just invite you for the unpleasant part. You will help me get rid of a person I hate and He hates as well." Marguerite wasn't sure the merchant even noticed who she was referring to.

The Lombard gave her such a look as though she was insane, "If you think I am going to make any more deals with you, you are wrong. God be my witness…"

"Don't spit out profanities before you know everything." She was prepared for that reaction, knowing exactly what she'd see after mentioning _his_ name. "The man, responsible for your current humiliation, is the same man who had caused you troubles before. Don't you want to ruin… Genesis' life?"

It should have been her triumph when Lorenzo's eyes avidly flared up, which betokened that the merchant didn't forget or forgive, but in truth it was just emptiness until a voice spoke to her, having sent shivers of excitement and fright down her spine, so cold it was, so inhuman.

And God said, _"You have done well, my faithful Marguerite."_

… After Lorenzo had left with her benevolent promises she'll avenge Genesis, Marguerite lucidly understood what had to be done and how, yet before there was one conversation left she was complied to have with her stepson. His sins notwithstanding, she, like God, was merciful, and Sephiroth deserved a chance for repentance.

When Kathy led him to her bedchambers, Marguerite expected to feel that same warm flutter in her chest, as though there was a butterfly trapped there or a sunlight spot. However, the feeling inside her was akin to the same hollow, and not even the brightness of emerald eyes or perfection of immaculate features stirred a genuine emotion.

_He is not your son, as__ he isn't your beloved any longer. He is a sinner. Sinners should be punished. Sinners should walk a path on the broken glass until their feet would bleed and give away._

"We need to talk, Sephiroth," she averred in a solemn manner that was more suitable for a royal court, having rendered her stepson surprised, or so she thought. His pose, perfectly calm, arms crossed behind him, expressed nonchalance rather than any sign of amazement. Marguerite still noticed he was gorgeous, being clad in velvet, black as starless night, but the beauty was more otherworldly, inhumanly cold, as though belonging to the Angel of Death.

Was it Samael?

She could not remember.

"Was it something specific you wanted to ask of me?"

She held her head awry, glassy eyes blinking slowly, resembling a desiccated bird. "You have to banish Genesis from our house, my son."

Sephiroth still maintained perfect calm, not a muscle twitched on his face, his voice didn't quaver, and it angered her. Why didn't her son ever care about what she told him? "I am tired, mother, I had a long day. If there is nothing else for you to say, I shall take my leave." He turned swiftly, his movements almost too precise and perfected for a man, and seeing this cutting sharpness hurt; his expression, devoid of anything human, was another sign that his patience was not endless and a crack between them was, as of now, irremediable. "Have a good night, mother."

"Wait!" She screamed hysterically, for a moment returning to life and, having leapt out of the bed, dashed for the door. She managed to get there faster, now standing mere inches away from her stepson. To meet his eyes she had to look up, past the curves of his lips thinned into a straight line. So cold, so foreign the knight seemed, as though he wasn't her stepson, but a stranger from a busy street in a huge city, like Paris or Dijon. The closeness, however, aroused reminiscent dizziness, desire, but Marguerite could not succumb to it because he was a sinner.

_Sinner… sinner… sinner…_

The voice was like myriads of drums beating inside her head.

"Wait!" She repeated with an angry frown. "He talked to me, Sephiroth. He told me He is no longer willing to tolerate your gruesome sins. Are you going to doubt _Him_?"

Emerald eyes flashed with open enmity.

"And who is that _he_ I am beholden to now?" There unmistakably was venom in his voice.

"God."

To that Sephiroth laughed tonelessly, "You are insane, mother," and, having shoved her aside, slipped through the door and closed it with an angry slam.

Marguerite slumped by the wall in a heap of disarrayed gown. He refused to listen to the voice of reason. He chose. There was nothing else she could do for him.

…_He is a sinner. Sinners should be punished. Sinners should walk a path on the broken glass until their feet would bleed and give away…_

She will punish Sephiroth, take all that he was away from him, his title, his reputation, his dreams she never bothered to ask about, and finally his lover; she will punish her son out of love, and when he, broken and wretched, returns, she will forgive him.

Such was God's highest will.

God's.

Not hers.

Tears streamed down her hollow cheeks. She had no will left.

* * *

Sephiroth was unusually silent and thoughtful after the visit to his stepmother, as though something troubled him. He almost looked frail as he stood thereat, a silvery shadow against the blackness of the night sky in the tall lancet window, but Genesis knew that it was a delusion, for his lover was one of the strongest people he has ever known as both a person and a warrior. Or simply the strongest.

Twiddling a goose quill in his fingers, the redhead absently stared at the parchment, yet couldn't focus on the contents of the book he was reading, from time to time turning his eyes to the silvery silhouette. Silence was comfortable, and he didn't want to guess what the ambassadors of the English King wanted of them, being fine as he was, torn between the lines on the vellum pages and admiring his lover's half hidden in waves of moonlight hair profile.

Sephiroth spoke first, and Genesis certainly heard the deep voice, yet the meaning of his lover's words sank in belatedly, having stunned him more than the worst news.

"Will you marry me, Genesis?"

The goose quill fell out of his hand, the book followed with a dull thud, acute in suddenly deathly hush, and for the first time in his life Genesis was left utterly speechless. It took him a whole eternity to recover, to swallow a lump in his throat as if his heart had actually left its wonted place in his chest. "M-marry you? I-I…" he didn't get beyond the first words, having stammered, like a bashful child. Sephiroth was still looking at something outside the window, and, however Genesis desired to see his face, he had to accept he couldn't. It took him another long moment to gather his thoughts anew. "Are you mad, Sephiroth? Do you want to destroy us both now, when we are so close to fulfilling our dreams?" Genesis meant it to be a light reproach, but it appeared too hard to keep the caustic notes form his voice. With his brilliance, his lover had to understand that it was an impossible desire. 'We can't…"

He was interrupted calmly, the viscount's replica turning their whole conversation almost surreal. How could he be so calm? "That was not the question I asked."

And what response were his words supposed to evoke?

Genesis hung his head, now nervously twiddling the cloth of his scarlet robe, for it was painful to voice it all out, to acknowledge the unattainable. "If I could, I would have married you. Yet, do you not understand that a priest won't wed us? Not that it changes anything," he added with strength, having opened out his shoulders and looked straight into dark, enigmatic depths Sephiroth's eyes has always been, "for I already belong to you more than to anyone else in my entire life. Is it… is it not enough? Or is it to satisfy your whims did you suddenly decide to do everything by the book? Then know that…"

His lover did not move, just calmly raised his hand, and Genesis' fury dissipated like fog in the gust of wind.

"I simply asked," Sephiroth's face was deadpan, yet somewhere underneath weariness hid. "You are right it is not important, not to me at least. I just needed to know."

Genesis choked with indignation, "Are you satisfied now?" He still could not understand the reasons his lover would broach this painful subject.

The silver-haired shadow moved, more like glided towards the nightstand whereon a small jewellery box stood. Sephiroth opened it, froze over something for a moment, and then neared him with a small ring, so exquisitely crafted it seemed a band of silver moonlight on his palm rather then a thing of metal. His lover wore a faint smile on thin lips, no less enigmatic than the glimmer in his eyes.

"Since we cannot get married – as you called it – by the book, there is something I wanted you to keep," Sephiroth knelt down between his legs so that their eyes were level, and slid a small band onto his ring finger. "Think of it as a symbol, a gift, a promise that if death is not to part us, I shall not abandon you."

Sephiroth's refined fingers covering his burnt.

"In God's name, Seph," Genesis laughed with blithe notes to hide a storm of emotions that reigned over him now, and among them there was no anger or resentment left, "why do you have to be so formal?"

"We are who we are," he parried with a graceful shrug, their lips almost touching, "no more, yet no less."

Then the faint touch became completely engulfing, hands and lips everywhere, and, descending into blissful void, Genesis yielded to his lover with more eagerness than he heretofore remembered, as if he wanted every scintilla of his body to belong to Sephiroth. The bond between them was too strong now to resist or fight, or betray for any reason the redhead could come up with, death aside.

After both of them were satiated and exhausted, the knight succumbed to slumber almost at once, having left Genesis one on one with his thoughts. In darkness the redhead lay, eyes opened and riveted on the thin band of silver, almost surreal on his finger. It was more than just a symbol, a gift, or a promise. Sephiroth was peacefully sleeping by his side, and Genesis would rather chuck anyone out of the bedchambers rather impolitely than allow waking his lover; and certainly the redhead would not bereave the knight of rest for something so trifling as a question he had on the tip of his tongue.

All his questions and answers could wait until dawn.

But the morrow brought more questions than answers.


	29. Chapter XXVIII: Promise and poison

_A/N: __**Short list of names, personalities, etc:**_

_Edward II_ – king of England, father of Edward III. Some chronicles suggest he had sexual relationships with his minions and favourites, although besides gifting them with lands and wealth, it is not a certain fact he had. In 1327 was dethroned and later killed by his wife's secret agent.

_Dies Irae_ _(lat.)_ – Day of Wrath, or Judgment Day.

* * *

_**Chapter XXV**__**III.**_

_**Promise and poison.**_

"_Christianity gave Eros poison to drink: he did not die of it but degenerated - into vice" (F. Nietzsche)._

Sephiroth received the ambassadors of the English king first thing in the morning. Having locked himself up in his bedchambers, the viscount allowed only three more people therein, the Duke of Burgundy, his lover and the ambassador without a retinue. Having introduced himself as Sir John de Balliol, the knight received a permission to speak after the greetings were completed with befitting formality.

Sephiroth, dressed in simple dark-blue and silver garments, stood out against his pompously clothed guests, however, that simplicity added an unnoticeable superiority to his bearing instead of belittling him. It was as if by it the viscount was emphasizing that true grandeur of a king was not in how he dressed, but in his personality.

And Sephiroth always behaved like a king.

Having gracefully leaned back in his armchair, his bearing nearly perfect and long fingers clenched around the armrests, Sephiroth studied the man in front of him. Sir John was not of any remarkable appearance, rather a very unobtrusive stocky knight with a face that could hardly be called either volitional, or weak. Small eyes were constantly roving about the room, and thereat it was hard to meet his glance. He had a scar on his forehead, a thin notch from what appeared to be a dagger wound, and an aquiline nose, that being all Sephiroth could notice from their first meeting. Finally, seeing that his intent stare was causing the latter's awkwardness, Viscount du Bugey and now regent of Nevers and Flanders magnanimously gestured for Sir John to begin.

"Milord, Edward the Third, by the grace of God the King of glorious England, entrusted me with an honor to deliver his will to the valiant regent of Nevers and Flanders, whose feats on the battlefield of Crecy are worthy of highest praise." Sephiroth frowned, displeased with the ambassador's silken harangues meant to flatter and coax him into doing the English King a favour. They were enemies if Edward hadn't forgotten that he was bound to serve the French crown. "The animosity between us saddens my king, and it is by his will that I come to your house with an olive branch, milord. As a sign of his benevolence and honest intentions, My Majesty offers to return Flanders to you." Sephiroth's eyes narrowed to tiny cold slits. If the English King hoped for any kind of peace between them, he shouldn't have reminded the silver-haired knight of his previous mistakes and of those he made due to the said King's meddling at that.

Out of formal courtesy, Sephiroth decided to inquire. "And what does your king want in return?"

The ambassador's face broke into a wide smile, and the viscount liked Sir John smiling even less. In the opposite corner Genesis sat in another armchair so that they could exchange glances from time to time, and the redhead didn't seem impressed either. Lips thinned into a straight line, Sephiroth listened to Sir John's response.

"Oh, just a small favour, milord. My king wished to ask you to join our forces in the siege of Calais, a city he would take on his own, yet as a sign of your good intentions…"

"If Edward can defeat the garrison at Calais on his own, why ask for my help?" Sephiroth interrupted the garrulous ambassador with even less affability once sensed the fallacy in his words. Calais could resist the Englishmen until summer, or even fall of the next year; that he knew from numerous letters he received lately. "What will you say, Odo?"

"Calais will hold, milord," the old Duke responded with certainty of a man who owned the city for over twenty five years.

The ambassador flushed with anger, and, however short the outburst was, the knight noticed the change in a way his veins distended on his forehead. Still, under his piercing gaze Sir John restrained himself, having continued in the most polite manner.

"Like I said before, it is a _favour_ my king would expect in return to his kindness. Moreover, My Majesty would like to seal our alliance, offering his daughter, beautiful and virtuous Isabel, to be your wife, since you haven't chosen yet."

That proposal Sir John was certain Sephiroth could not refuse, for it was always an honor to be offered affinity to the King's bloodline. In his case any noble greedy enough would have clung to this golden opportunity, however, the silver-haired viscount had more than enough reasons to refuse.

Sephiroth flinched, remembering what he had promised Genesis just the night before and how his lover accepted the ring, and for some reasons these last words angered him more than everything else. He glanced at his lover, but the redhead sat with his eyes downcast, face hidden in waves of silken auburn hair; only his fingers were twiddling with the silver band he was gifted with, thus making it obvious that Genesis didn't trust him enough. Cold, as steel, ire flooded Sephiroth, who for an instant was ready to send the ambassador out quite rudely for the mere thought of giving his redhead a reason to doubt his promise.

How dare the Englishmen come to _his_ house two months after killing his stepfather in a battle, offering to return the land he owned by birth right and, moreover, proposing a marriage that would tear him and his lover apart? Couldn't he for once choose who to marry and love himself?

"I appreciate the offer, Sir John," there was an icy gleam in emerald eyes, "but I will have to give your king my refusal… with most sincere apologies."

The polite words tasted like bitter wormwood on his tongue. The silken harangues were not his style of speaking, always direct and terse, yet with Kings he had to be polite until he could speak to any of the European monarchs as an equal.

"But, milord, Edward's proposal is more than generous," the ambassador paled slightly, "it is…"

"Your King is our enemy," Odo cut him short rather bluntly, and Sephiroth felt gratitude to the old Duke. "We don't ally ourselves with the enemies."

This time the pallor on Sir John's face was lividness of anger. "I addressed you, milord, and expected an answer from you, not this man."

"This is Odo, the Duke of Burgundy," Sephiroth reminded casually, rather amused with the ambassadors attempts to turn the events in his favour. However, the silent duel of willpowers didn't last long.

Having proclaimed, "I hope you won't deplore you decision, milord," in a solemn manner, the English ambassador stalked out of the viscount's bedchambers, desperately trying to keep his dignity and pride unscathed.

Was Sir John trying to daunt him? Sephiroth hated threats. Taking a deep breath, the knight restrained a burning desire to punish the insolent ambassador.

"I think the Englishmen deserved your rejection, Your Majesty." The Duke chuckled with content. "Next time they will think twice before invading France."

The knight looked at his lover, and the redhead seemed hardly content. Having caught a telltale burning gaze, Sephiroth just looked at Odo, and he remarked no more, having taken his leave almost at once.

The knight and his lover were alone in the bedchambers, and with a weary hang of the head, Sephiroth understood that he would have to endure another tempest, the one he wasn't able to dismiss so easily.

He was right.

Genesis rose slowly, in no less solemn manner than the ambassador of the English king, and, having haughtily lifted his chin, headed for the bedroom door without saying a single word. His face was blank, a beautiful emotionless façade, and Sephiroth didn't hold out, having impatiently snapped, "Aren't you going to say something?"

"Humph, I am not in the mood to talk to you, Sephiroth," the acerbic words cut the silence between them, no less sharp than his lover's bearing, narrow shoulders arrogantly unbent, auburn head slightly tilted aloft.

"What is wrong now?"

Genesis didn't turn, having flung his arms in a theatrically desperate manner. "Ah, and now you are asking what is wrong after having made me a promise just yesterday. At times, your blindness is bearable, but… this?! How, in God's name, will you explain _this_?!"

The ariose voice trembled with fury, and yet there was something else well hidden underneath, a ringing note of almost frightened desperation.

Sephiroth wearily reclined his head onto his hand, trying to keep the last scintilla of patience he had after the unpleasant talk with the ambassador. It was hard to stay calm that day, and Genesis was definitely doing his best to overstep his limits.

"Unless you say it, I cannot understand what you want of me."

"For God's sake!" The frock the redhead wore during the meeting with Sir John flew off to the side, cast away in pure anger. "Yesterday you asked me to marry you, knowing all too well that when you become a king, you'd have to wed some daughter of those arrogant bastards. Where does that leave me, Sephiroth? As your personal confessor and occasional visitor to your bedchambers?!"

The silver-haired knight almost laughed, however, the improper expression of his emotions froze in the corners of his lips, having never been showed in any other way than a ghost of a smile. He couldn't even suspect Genesis would get jealous for such a trifling reason he thought of not once, but many times before making a proposal, having finally reached a decision he would never have a wife.

Having swiftly risen to his feet, the viscount neared the window. Far below the horsemen were seen, cloaked in the early morning mist, and he could have sworn he could see the silhouette of the English ambassador as the cavalcade swiftly left the courtyard and disappeared behind the walls of Chateau de Thil.

"I made you a promise, Genesis. Have I ever broken a word I gave you?" Through the blurred nearly transparent reflection of his face in the window glass Sephiroth watched the bleak lifeless landscape, silvered by first rime or smirched with slush. He suddenly thought about starting the campaign so close to winter, which wasn't that unusual. Springs with heavy thunderstorms were worse, and if they could not finish the campaign before bitter frost, the troops will simply have to find quarters for a month or two. However, the viscount didn't wish to prolong the war more than he needed.

"And what does your promise mean?" Genesis echoed from behind more bitterly than fiercely. "Why haven't I thought of it earlier? King Edward II was rumoured to have been like us, to have had… lovers among his closest advisors, and how did he end up? Dethroned. Humiliated. Is this how you want to fall?" The redhead's light steps rustled on the floor wistfully, as if being a whisper of wind in the barren crowns of the trees. "When facing a choice between keeping your throne or your devotion to me, what will you do, Sephiroth? Maybe, our love was never meant to last, and it will be for the best if I… if I leave now."

The silver-haired knight pivoted abruptly, emerald eyes flashing between silver tresses, "No. I said, no."

The redhead bitterly laughed, mocking him, mocking himself, "Things don't always go the way we want them to."

Sephiroth put both of his palms on his lover's shoulders, slightly vexed with his redhead for being so stubborn. Genesis didn't draw back, simply looked at him, azure eyes burning with demand, defiance, passion. Surprisingly, he expected it.

"Edward II was not forced to abdicate his throne because he loved Gaveston or one of his later minions; that was merely another stain on his reputation. He was an incompetent ruler, unlike his father or his son. He was a disaster, a flaw in the bloodline." He looked down, noticing that the silver tresses touched his chest, longer and thicker than usual. With his tumultuous life, he forgot to trim them. "If I repeat his mistakes, I shall deserve to fall."

"What was forgiven to the king of the pure bloodline might not be forgiven to the bastard of Capetian dynasty." The redhead traversed, still not satisfied with his explanation and therefore keeping distance. "The Frenchmen will expect you to give them an heir, and what will you say? I can't because I love my confessor…"

Genesis' dry laugh grated upon his ears, but nevertheless the viscount's answer was calm, "I will rule them, not the other way around. I shall give them the victory over the English king, and the good Frenchmen will forget about the heir. They will love me even without a queen, and if giving birth to an heir is the only duty I fail to do, so be it."

Genesis flinched in his arms, having finally yielded and rested his head on his shoulder.

"You sound so confident, and I want to believe you because I hate the mere thought of losing you to any queen."

So broken. So quiet. Sephiroth ran his hand over rich auburn hair, enjoying the sensation of silken tresses flowing through his fingers.

"You won't."

There was a time when he had doubts, but those times were over before he decided to claim the French throne. Genesis' fingers clenched his shoulders with force of despair, as if his lover was afraid he would vanish as a ghost.

"Gods, Seph, I… I just never thought I would love anyone so much." The melodic voice quavered, cracked, thick with emotion.

Broken, incomplete love it was from the very beginning. Sephiroth closed his eyes, as if looking into himself. Why? _Why us?_ But the questions about unfairness of the world had no answers, so he stopped asking those a long time ago.

"Me neither." He echoed quietly and into the hollow.

* * *

The Duke finally decided to leave by evening, and after an abundant dinner the knight and his new ally parted rather cheerfully. The old Duke was in sparkling mood, retelling numerous jokes, and even though some of them could be considered risqué, none bothered to reproach him. By the end of the feast, when nearly everyone, including his lover, left the knight's hall, Alber approached Sephiroth as he stood by the fireplace, absently watching the flames dance in the narrow deepening in the wall.

"Messire," the youth's voice helped him out of the reverie, and the knight acknowledged he heard his squire with a curt nod. "Have I ever asked anything of you for myself?"

"No, you haven't. Why?"

His squire cleared his throat, gathering his courage, "I am begging you, messire, to ask milord Duke for a favour. I know he won't listen to me, but he will listen to you. My brother," Alber cast his eyes down with nervous anticipation, 'is a page at the Duke's court, and I thought that you could… maybe, you could ask him to leave Jean with me. He doesn't mind, I asked him. He is not devoted to milord Duke as I am to you, messire."

Sephiroth shrugged. Why not? His squire deserved a reward a long time ago, only he, being human and imperfect, forgot about it.

"I will try. I can't yet promise anything, but I shall ask about your brother."

"Thou art very kind, messire," Alber whispered with tears in his eyes, and lips, having clung to his fingers in a brief kiss, burnt. "Thank you."

The youth averted his face and was about to take his leave, but Sephiroth stopped him. He meant to ask his squire about the changes he's seen in him after the battle, but again never got the chance. This was the best time.

"Alber, what happened to you at Crecy?"

The youth halted abruptly, as if having stumbled into a granite wall, and for a while there was only silence. Finally, a whisper passed his lips, so faint he could hardly discern the words. "I cowered, milord. Everything… everything happened so fast, and I was so scared that I…" The squire searchingly peered into the knight's face, tearful eyes widely opened, as those of a wounded deer, "I didn't imagine the battle like that. I thought we would win, both of us would become heroes, and minstrels would sing ballads about our glory, yet instead… instead… I was a fool, messire, to have wanted that. I only saw death, and that death… unlike the one minstrels sing about, unlike glorious fall, that death was ugly. Like someone's cold fingers pierce your chest and tear the heart out. I am such a coward, messire."

Sephiroth leaned all his weight on his palm, intently watching his squire with a mixture of pity and fatherly care, which did not allow him to express it. Men did not need pity if they wished to survive in the world they lived in. If Alber were his son, he would have said the same words.

"You are not a coward, Alber. Cravens have no courage to admit their own failures." He bent over the fireplace and threw more wood on the fire. "I was scared like you once, and, like you, I failed to act. Not once, twice even."

Astonished, Alber covered his mouth with his palm. "Messire, you…"

"Yes, me. When I was thirteen, I saw my father rape a young girl, but I was so frightened, I couldn't even move, let alone contrive to protect her." His other weaknesses were harder to explain. "The more you see and kill, the more you become insensible to violence, but the first time you overstep the boundary, Alber, is the hardest. After that you either emerge broken, or you are a new person." Sephiroth wearily pushed the chimney wall aside, having shivered with cold, despite standing near the burning flames. At times the burden made itself felt with such merciless lucidity that it was hard not to remember his victims. "But," nevertheless, he smiled, for the youth needed it, "I believe you have the strength to accept the change."

"You believe in me, messire. How can I ever…" Alber faltered, lips trembling, as if he was about to cry anew, "how can I be worthy of your trust?"

The knight's hand brushed against his squire's shoulder as he walked by the youth on his way to the door. Silver hair swayed in time with his sharp strides, and Alber followed it with his eyes, mesmerized. Before leaving the hall, Sephiroth echoed, "You never failed me," without turning and thus didn't see a single tear that rolled out of Alber's eyes.

The Duke of Burgundy waited for him in the courtyard, holding the reins of his horse. The cold wind was playing with last dry brown leaves on the barren ground, whirling them around in circles, and above the castle the star of the day was fading on the cheerless welkin.

The viscount approached his new ally, remembering the request of his young squire. "I wanted to ask you for another favour. There is a page at your court, Jean by the name, who is my squire's brother."

"And you want him?" The Duke inquired in a business-like tone, as though used to selling people's lives. But then, likely, he was. Sephiroth replied with a curt nod, his gaze riveted on something in the distance rather than on the redheaded man's face.

"If you wish a replacement, I can…"

"No, no, I don't need another page, and, besides, Jean is a rather lazy boy. Had to birch him a couple of times. Now," the Duke roared with genuine laughter, "it will be your concern."

If he didn't reveal his bloodline, the silver-haired knight was certain Odo would have tapped him on the shoulder.

"I appreciate it, Odo."

"Don't even mention it. Easy, easy, good boy," that was meant for the horse, which moved its ears and neighed with anxiety, perhaps smelling winter in the air. Having beckoned one of the servants from the retinue, the Duke gave necessary orders and then faced Sephiroth anew.

"Farewell," he finally said with a deep bow, and his lips added soundlessly, '_Your Majesty._'

"Farewell, Odo," replied Sephiroth, and having wrapped himself tighter into the dark cloak he threw over his shoulders on the way out, hurried inside.

Cold winter was slowly stealing up to the castle.

* * *

Marguerite's hands shook as she tried to open the door to the kitchen. Did she feel _His _strong presence, or was she simply affected by seeing them together again? Wandering through the empty rooms in her castle, she stumbled upon Genesis in the hallway. The redhead was in a hurry and didn't notice her hiding behind the pillar. Marguerite knew he was heading for her stepson's bedchambers, yet followed nonetheless with some twisted curiosity.

She was right. The redhead's burgundy clothing disappeared in the door to Sephiroth's rooms whereat she once dreamt to reign and love her now lost and guilty stepson.

Pitiful, horrid sinners they were.

After Marguerite made sure they were occupied with each other, she wended her way towards the kitchen where Loki usually cleaned dishes. She needed an ally, and the peasant was loyal to her without any doubt. With his ugly – as his face – heart, Loki was grateful to his mistress for saving him from penury.

Marguerite never asked for more.

Marguerite never needed more than this canine loyalty.

The door yielded after a couple of poignant moments of contemplation. She wasn't that old to have her hands shake, yet with some assurance she knew _He_ would not let her die before peace descended upon her family; before Sephiroth would be broken for defying _His_ will, like little porcelain doll. How dare they, insolent children of the benign God?

"Milady comes to see Loki. Milady needs Loki." The peasant leapt to his feet, his face breaking into a smile. Indeed, breaking. The smile was ugly, but God loved all his children, even the twisted ones. No, the twisted ones were children of Satan. Or not? Marguerite was confused.

"I need a favour, and I brought you something," she rummaged in her pocket, having found a golden coin. It glistened in the faint streak of moonlight, so enticing, so precious. A golden coin for an angel, that Loki told her once. Now it was a golden coin for the angel's life.

He greedily held his hand for it, avarice openly reflected on his ugly face, but Marguerite wasn't foolish. "I will not give you a coin until you come back from the merchant's house with poison."

The thought that she had to poison Genesis belonged to God, she simply followed _His_ wise guidance. It was the easiest way to rid herself of this redheaded nuisance. She did it once with Joan, little frail Joan, and nobody even suspected the girl didn't die a natural death.

Girls die, monks die, but in the end _He_ would be glorified.

"Me do it," Loki burred with disappointment, having pulled a long face, his empty grin like a charade of a genuine human expression. "But milady has to know something. Me like lads more than gold. If milady wants my services, she will need to find me a lad."

Though no longer truly herself, Marguerite flinched at the straightforward suggestion. "What do you need kids for, Loki?"

"Me watch them, milady." The peasant made one of his annoying dancing moves. "Nature stole beauty from Loki, and now he dreams of sweetness and youth, of frailty he never had. Milady has to find him an angel."

"I will think of it," she promised, knowing she wouldn't bother with Loki's foolish wishes. He was her tool, as she was God's. "But don't forget, if you want a golden coin, go to Nevers on the morrow and bring me poison the Lombard merchant Lorenzo promised me."

"Who does milady wish to poison?"

"No one!" Marguerite exclaimed with suspicion. God told her to be careful, for Satan's servants lurked everywhere, and this one could be the tempter's way of deceiving her. "Never you mind what I want. Do what you are told, and you will be paid properly."

Having said that, she turned around and walked out of the kitchen in a regal manner. Having ascended the stairs the menials usually used, Marguerite passed the door that led to the highest tower in the castle. A desire to jump from the window seized her for a moment, a desire to fill the hollow whereat only God's voice remained, to find what she sought in her stepson's arms, and that was simple human happiness.

Dead were happy, weren't they? After Genesis died, Sephiroth would be devastated, Marguerite thought with another wave of twisted satisfaction. Genesis will be happy. Her stepson will be saved and thus happy, too.

They will all be happy.

A stooping shadow in long lugubrious dress slipped through streaks of moonlight and disappeared, leaving the trail of fresh smell in faint draught.

* * *

Sephiroth's skin was so immaculate that it reflected the intricate dance of flames. Having raised himself on his elbow, Genesis tenderly passed his hand over the refined curves of his lover's body, starting with the line of shoulders and continuing down along the waist and thigh. The knight lay on the bed crosswise, with his back to the redhead, and only legs were wrapped in a blanket, otherwise leaving him utterly and shamelessly naked. The fireplace was lit, that being the only source of light in their dark bedchambers. The scarlet sparks were glibly jumping from brass candlesticks to his lover's long silver hair, and Genesis was watching them getting tangled among the silken tresses and scintillating between his fingers as he combed the moonlight rain.

They were so comfortable with each other for a while, nearly from their first night together, whenas there was no shame or timidity left, all modesty cast away as useless. It was a prerogative of those who loved themselves with all flaws and beauties. Although there were more beauties in them than flaws, Genesis thought with conceit, stroking his lover's back slowly, like an artist would have painted his canvas. That reminded him of once felt desire to paint Sephiroth's portrait whereat the knight would have to be naked, of course. With a smirk he leaned forward and kissed a spot on his lover's back between his shoulder-blades.

"We have about an hour before we set out. Tell me a story form your childhood, since I don't know many." He heard Sephiroth murmur the words lazily, in almost casual manner. "You rarely talk about it."

"If your mother was burnt for heresy," somehow that evening the words brought no painful reminiscences, as the otherworldly peace of lying by Sephiroth's side ousted every other emotion, "you wouldn't be talking about it either. But since you asked…" Genesis sighed, shifting so that his leg ended up twined around his lover's, and their bodies touched, chests heaving in almost perfect unison. "I mentioned my first Dominican preceptor the other day, my first real teacher. His name was Clement… simply Clement, for he was from a commoner's family. We travelled together to Italy and then to England. Thereat I heard of a legend about black ravens in the Tower of London, a very peculiar legend I must say, and very, humph, pagan at that. It is said that if the ravens left the White tower, the kingdom would perish, and their little _Dies Irae _would befall them. Can you imagine such silliness? Like the curse of the Templar Knights." The redhead freed his hand from his lover's and began tracing circles on the smooth chest and around hardening nipples. "Ravens are linked to Odin or Hecate, but Christians still believe in this symbolism that ties them to the underworld. I think we weren't very picky choosing the rituals for the new religion and adopting those most commonly practiced among pagans." Sephiroth shivered from his persistent caress, and he immediately withdrew his hand. "Ah, but I do digress. Clement taught me to question everything although he only believed in Peter Abelard's teachings. Eventually, he was accused of heresy, and we ended up in the hands of the Holy Inquisition. They burnt him, or rather _magnanimously_ smothered before the execution, and I survived. Such a simple, trite tale it is."

"How did it happen?"

There was no bitterness left, just the taste of his lover's skin on his tongue. Sephiroth possessed him whole that evening. Genesis lowered his head onto his lover's shoulder, remembering that winter and the veil of white falling snow. "I am a much better actor, darling. You keep forgetting that."

"Is it a reproof, for I still can't understand how you managed to cajole Lorenzo into giving you money?"

"Indeed. Don't underestimate the power of my charm, Sephiroth." He playfully honeyed into his lover's ear.

"Devil's charm," the knight muttered in response, yet the teasing notes prevailed among the disbelief in the deep, velvety voice.

Genesis felt the topic was getting a little too dangerous, so, having climbed over his lover's slender body, faced the knight with a sly smile. "You said we had an hour. How about we use it for something more pleasant than idle talk? For that we will have all night if you insist."

Emerald eyes lit up with sunny sparks that begot flames, as their lips slowly joined, hands following with impetuous haste. Soon all Genesis could discern were the curtain of Sephiroth's silver hair and ardent kisses on his skin, as acute moans were wrung from his lips nearly against his will. Inflamed, his body begged, befogged, he could not think, a slave of a whimsical master, whose name was passion.

And passion was Sephiroth.

Having arched into the soft sheets, Genesis accepted his lover, and Sephiroth descended upon him in a halo of fading coals and storm of scattered silver. At the end he screamed his lover's name, as the world was torn asunder, later thinking that if the castle wasn't inhabited by deaf, even sleeping maids should have heard his unchaste plea.

A light kiss on his lips completed their unity, and the redhead nestled close to Sephiroth's body, getting his breath between light caresses his knight welcomed with faint moans.

After waves of blissful aftermath has washed over them and dissipated, Sephiroth rose and silently slipped into warm clothes prepared beforehand. Genesis lay in bed for a while, watching his lover's movements and playing with his engagement ring, as if that undertaking brought him more pleasure than any other. Only when Sephiroth teased him, reminding that if he lingered longer, the knight would leave without him, did the redhead finally throw the heavy blanket off and ready himself for a journey. He didn't take much, yet, following the viscount's example who took his flamboyant sword along, affixed two daggers to his belt.

"Are you sure you want just the two of us on this journey?"

"I am." His lover threw a cloak over his shoulders and hid his face underneath a deep hood. Once again Genesis followed his example, having become akin to Sephiroth as his reflection. "We will start with Chatillon, the village I helped defending against the Genovese traitors. I need as many allies as we can find and done as subtly as possibly."

Genesis held the door open until Sephiroth slipped into the hallway, thereupon closed it and turned a key in the lock.

A long journey was ahead of them both, and an even longer one after that.


	30. Chapter XXIX: Flames and ice

**_A/N:_ Warning:** numerous offensive religious ideologies made even worse since proclaimed by Genesis. :D I shall repeat again – if you are religious, don't read, or read, but you will only have yourself to blame.

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

"…_He can go back to the Scots…"_ – is referred to king Philippe's IV successful attempts to start a war between Scotland and England, so that the Parliament would have to call Edward back.

_Deus absconditus __(lat.)_– a god who is hidden from man.

* * *

_**Chapter XXIX.**_

_**Flames and ice.**_

"_I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing. If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned." (John, 15:5-6, KJV)._

Rows of narrow benches and greasy tables hid in quivering light of smoking torches, and in this semi-darkness a face of a man underneath a deep hood seemed a shapeless black spot. Still, Genesis knew Sephiroth was watching him, for every time he turned he could see crimson gleams of flames flaring up in emerald eyes as if in mirrors.

The mug of cheap beer in front of him was half empty, the rest of the contents spilled on the dirty floor. Genesis needed it as pretence while still keeping his head perfectly clear. It was time for his best act, his most important role played for himself, for his lover, for France. The redhead shivered, and mid-October cold had little to do with chill he was feeling. His fingers were nervously playing with a short auburn lock, and his mouth felt dry, only beer was the least desired resort to quench his burning thirst.

To his left a man was snoring, head buried in his calloused palms, and judging by unpretentious clothing, Genesis concluded he was a blacksmith. The dark smirches of burnt cloth stained his outfit, and red marks whereat white-hot metal bit flesh stood out against bronzed skin.

The tavern was full on a Sunday night, and clamor was tickling his ears, touching them with feather light caresses and distracting from thinking about his act. Genesis pursed up his lips in frustration, unnoticeably wiping a thin trickle of sweat from his forehead.

Suddenly a door to the common room flung open, revealing a bulky silhouette of a man, and through the chink a gust of cold wind stole up to the redhead, getting into the flap of his cloak. Outside it was already dark, a scrap of the starlit sky flashing in the corner of Genesis' eyes and disappearing when the door slammed behind a new visitor.

The redhead gifted him with a fleeting glance, eyes sliding along the unremarkable face with same ease as fingers on ice, seeing no detail worthy of attention. The stranger came up to the table, leaned his whole weight on it and spoke to the tavern keeper in a gruff voice, "Oi, old man, get a keg of your best beer and quick! My bones are freezing."

The innkeeper, a lean and grey man indeed, stared at the newcomer with an expression of weariness and indifference. "Get out of my tavern, drunkard," he mumbled through yellow teeth, "You can't afford a quart of my dark ale."

"For such insults I can have you beheaded where you stand, old fool. Thank God that I respect your hoary lot," a golden coin rolled on the greasy tabletop, ringing with almost equal disdain as the man's voice. "Now get that keg of beer and don't keep the king's man waiting."

Genesis turned his head, having fastened his eyes upon the late night visitor, dozens of thoughts flashing in his mind. The opportunity was golden; Genesis could unmistakably recognize one when he saw it.

The innkeeper hurried to obey the order, disappearing in the kitchen, and thereupon the redhead lazily and loudly proclaimed, ably feigning a drunken dullard. "And who cares about your king?"

The man faced him as if stung by a bee, fires of rage flickering in his dark pig-like eyes; or so they seemed to the redhead who regarded the bloke with condescending disdain, sharp and clear in sparkling azure eyes, betraying his sobriety to anyone who would have looked closer.

The man, however, noticed nothing of the likes.

"What is it about my king that you don't like?"

Genesis attempted to rise, yet slumped back onto the bench, playing his role of a drunken hothead.

"Your king is a fool. He lost another battle to the Englishmen, the one even a lad could have won." The mumble passed his lips in the same scornful manner that even threatened to tear Sephiroth's icy calm from time to time. The man was no match to his lover. His reaction, his predictable rage, his trembling fingers, all was so amusing, a pattern so easily foreseen. Genesis cast up his eyes, realizing that the tavern nearly froze; rare and faint sounds were sharp in silence that ensued. "Your king is a worthless ignominy to the Frenchmen."

His pert laughter filled that silence, having every eye glued to his effrontery, and it wasn't the king's man who spoke first, for he seemed utterly speechless from rage.

"The red fellow is right, to hell with Philippe!" One of the drunken tavern habitués leapt up to his feet, shaking his mug of beer so that the dark liquid was spilling from it. His friends' attempted to hush him, yet the hothead wasn't easily calmed. "We don't need him here! He can go to the Scots, I am sure they will welcome him! My nephew died for that bastard, and I…"

Finally, his neighbours made him sit down and stop talking; another wave of murmur broke against silence in which the king's man finally recovered. Strong fingers ruthlessly clutched the redhead's cotardie, their noses almost touched, eyes locked, devouring each other with hatred of mortal enemies.

"How dare you, insolent yokel!" The hiss came out of his mouth with a wave of hot, stinking with cheap beer breath. "You, damned drunkards, sit in taverns and yawp like brainless dullards. You should hang! Worthless scumbags!" The redhead was shoved aside, his back painfully hitting the table edge; a desire to hit the offender in the face flared up only to be restrained. Even fires in azure eyes dimmed.

"Is this all you can say in your master's defense?" Genesis taunted in the same tipsy manner. "Maybe, he should get himself a better servant."

The man blushed to the roots of his hair, his fingers convulsively clutching a handle of a short sword which hitherto remained hidden underneath the dusty traveling cloak.

"If it's a fight you want, let's step out of the tavern and I'll show you _why_ the king favored me."

"I don't want a fight. I want a simple answer – why do we have to accept such an ignominy sitting on the French throne? Your king raised our taxes, took our children to war he foolishly lost, and now that war continues…"

Pain. Genesis saw it coming, knew he had to take the blow that erupted in his head like a sea of white-hot flames, felt his lips bleed as mouth filled with salty warm liquid. He took a breath, coughing, eyes filling with tears from sharp bolts of pain, and didn't even attempt to move with another angry half-hiss half-whisper.

"He is your king, too, and I swear by God's name I shall teach you a lesson."

Azure eyes swept the tavern to watch the reaction he hoped to see, the indignation, the umbrage, the sparks of rebellion, and he was not disappointed. He knew he won, Sephiroth would be satisfied, and on a small map another ink dot would appear whereat the village was situated. It would be their third one.

"The redhead is talking sense!"

A couple of eager men and youths leapt up to their feet when an old cobbler shouted a call, which elicited a triumphant even if bloody smile on Genesis' lips. Wiping scarlet stains from his lips, the redhead watched the man's face above him turn livid as he frantically eyed the suddenly ebullient tavern.

"Is there anyone here still noble enough to protect king's honor?"

His words were answered as well, by fewer, yet with no less fervor. The old tavern keeper hurried back with a keg, shrieking, "Not in my tavern! Get out of my tavern!" but it was too late. One of the hotheads jumped onto the tabletop, his fists high in the air.

"Let's beat some sense into the king's lapdogs!"

Two other men rushed to the speaker, pushed the table until it overturned and with a loud crash toppled a smaller bench with it. The shouting man, however, adroitly jumped from one tabletop to another, joined by a handful of supporters, and in a blink of an eye the tavern was engulfed by chaos of a disorderly fray. Smaller chairs were flying around, people rolling on the ground, screaming, hitting each other; blood was being spilled, clothes torn, and soon the cause of trouble was by both sides forgotten.

The only people unaffected by the turmoil were Genesis, the tavern keeper, who cowardly hid, clutching his head in genuine despair, and a man in a dark long cloak with glimmer of silver underneath the hood. Or, rather, he was quiescent and calm until one of the brawlers grabbed two torches and with an incoherent bawl threw one onto the table and the other into the pile of hay on the clay floor. It caught fire at once, and therethrough, his sword bared and flashing crimson, his lover boldly jumped. Brawlers recoiled from the knight, breaking the fight and freezing speechless, gawking, until an acute yell rang among crackling of avid flames, "Fire! Fire! Help!" The thin trickles of flames have been climbing up the walls and curtains around windows, overflowing the small premises no less quickly than a raging stream. The tavern habitués dashed for the exit door, all of a sudden forgetting all their previous differences facing a fear of being burnt alive. Yet, the door was too small to let all men out of the room at once, so a crush appeared in the folds.

Seeing this, Sephiroth lifted a table and with ease threw it into the window. The glass shattered with a doleful ding; having grabbed Genesis' wrist, his lover easily dragged him along towards a saving hole. Scorching heat caressed his skin, the landing painfully echoed in his body, but Genesis made it out safely and intact. Following his silver-haired lover, he ran into the stables, where the flaming flicker of waist-length silver hair immediately disappeared in the crowd that was rushing about the premises. Blindly, Genesis elbowed his way through the frightened throng to the place where their horses were tied to the wooden railing only to see a pale stranger escaping on his steed. Slightly panting, his lover appeared from behind, his face calm as always.

Genesis couldn't say the same about himself.

"He has just stolen our horse!"

"We have no time to chase him." Sephiroth snapped, gracefully flinging himself into the saddle in one swift honed move. Genesis mounted behind him and, hands on the slender waist, leaned into the cloaked silver-haired frame. The horse neighed, people screamed, darting from them into shadows as Sephiroth guided the mount into the opening. Once they escaped the stale air of the village stables, the acrid smoke burnt Genesis' lungs. Shadows were rushing about a small square, some carrying water from nearby wells, others still screaming, and in the centre of everything a burning tavern regally towered above the pitiful human frames, indifferent, magnificent, and refulgent in its fading glory. The fires were so bright that Genesis had to shade his eyes with his left hand when he shot one last glance at the monument of his victory before it finally disappeared in the misty haze of a cold October night.

On a small chapel church bells were ringing desperately and dolefully as if calling for battle. Maybe, soon they would be calling for a real one.

… They found an abandoned windmill on a hummock to spend their night at when Genesis froze right through. Having lost his cloak in the turmoil, the redhead tried to press himself to his lover's back to warm himself up a little, but the cold air kept whipping his skin as though with real lashes. They were tearing along the small streamlet into the darkness of night without any sense of direction until a dark shadow became visible in the thin trail of moonlight.

The windmill seemed abandoned for a long time, but to their surprise they were able to find some fresh enough hay and even water. It seemed that boys and girls from the villages in vicinity used to come to this place for their games or first dates. It was too cold to continue coming there in fall, but somehow the water was still fresh. Genesis hungrily pressed his lips to the clay goblet, tilted it until icy cold water burnt his mouth, droplets tickling his skin, coughed. The lower lip no longer ached after he took the blow, slightly numb, but at least it wasn't that uncomfortable to speak any longer. He warmed it with his tongue, eyes clinging to the ground. He felt Sephiroth was going to say something about the incident, and, having reclined against a wooden pillar in his ever so graceful pose, he did just that.

"I asked you to find out whether the villagers would prefer a new king to the old one. I never asked for the fiery and wild escapade." The deep voice was level; sparkling emerald eyes were looking straight into his, silver head slightly tilted aloft. Yet, the redhead knew his lover so well now that it was easy to see anger behind a seemingly indifferent façade. "Is it too much to ask for?"

He sighed with both frustration and helplessness, "I didn't expect the king's man to appear. At first, I thought it was a golden opportunity to start a drunken argument, but…" The empty goblet broke into smithereens against the hard earthen floor. Inly Genesis understood his fault, but vexation was too hard to restrain. ''It was not my fault!"

"I know it wasn't, but next time I am not expecting incidents like this to relapse."

"Then, maybe, you should do it yourself," the redhead snarled, however, regretting his loss of temper at once.

"I am too tired to argue, Genesis." Sephiroth pulled the cloak off his shoulders and spread out on the hay. The invitation to join him didn't follow. Having leaned his sword against the worm-eaten pillar, the viscount sprawled on the warm cloth, tightly wrapping himself, and faced a wall. "Good night."

_Fine._

Genesis ferociously bit his lower lip, faintly moaning as his mouth once again filled with blood when teeth scraped against the new wound. The frustration was impossible to fight, and to avoid further arguments, Genesis quickly strolled out of the mill.

No sooner the redhead stepped out of the room than the beauty of the scenery in front of him made him freeze in his tracks, eyes riveted on the crystalline water playing colors in starlight and curves of the dark forest clearly visible in pellucid air. The cold charm of that place imbibed his disappointment, however brief, and otherworldly calmness imbued Genesis' heart.

No matter what Sephiroth said, he won tonight, a tiny victory, but an important one still. Certainly, the redhead assured himself with that hubris that often kept him alive and in high spirits, by tomorrow his lover would forget about the foolish incident. They understood each other too well to let something so trifling as a burnt tavern stand between them. Sephiroth could have his bad moods, Genesis condescendingly concluded and lifted his head to watch the starlit skies.

Something cold landed on his cheek, trickled down his skin, and clear as a tear landed on his palm; another one followed soon enough to think he was crying. But he was not.

Whirling in the air, drawn to the ground by a force stronger than their light frailty, in glistening mesmerizing dance first heavy snowflakes were falling.

* * *

For reasons she could not grasp, Marguerite could imagine the whole world engulfed in purgatory flames easier than the features of her stepson's face. Some time ago God flooded the Earth to show his might and wrath to those who dared to defy his will; next time it could be hellish chasm opening or flames rising to heaven.

"_And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the earth shall die_," she read aloud from the old heavy Bible that lay opened on her lap. The sounds of her voice were soothing, although the words were not. What if God decided to end the world tomorrow? She was not prepared to face Him in His glory, and neither was Sephiroth.

A bag of poison rested on her bed nearby, a little black velvety bag that was death itself. Lorenzo was dissatisfied, but then he always was. The greedy Lombard wanted more than her benevolent promises to end Sephiroth's lover's life, he wanted certainty, proof, but his whims were nothing if God was to judge them tomorrow.

With solemnity Marguerite kneeled down and prayed. Peace inside her was fragile as a stained-glass window; barely a dozen of minutes ago she screamed at her maiden, and now there was nothing left in her world besides God's crucifix and His piercing eyes, burning her, questioning, judging.

… _and every thing that is in the earth shall die…_

The voice in her head was solemn. Fingers in dark gloves slowly undid laces of the velvety bag, poured out the white power onto the piece of parchment. With a small spoon Marguerite carefully measured a portion that was enough to kill a horse, then separated from the main pile. She hid all evidence of her crime before a light knock on the door interrupted her preparation, and a youth in light blue garments entered through the door.

Marguerite called for him when noticed that her stepson and his lover disappeared in the unknown direction, which she couldn't take lightly. Sephiroth was too smart to do something without having a certain reason underneath; he wouldn't just leave unless there was a scheme being conceived in his mind. During short hours when she was able to gather her thoughts and think clearly, Marguerite knew she had to find out what that plot was. Find out and ruin it.

"Milady asked for me. I am all at her service." The lively youth deeply bowed and froze with a befitting solemn expression like a mask covering his face. He reminded her of another one; those two were akin as two droplets of water or brothers, but the youth in front of her differed from his now broken counterpart. He was not nearly as loyal to Sephiroth as his brother was.

"Tell me, did your brother tell strange things to you lately, Jean? Perhaps, something about my stepson. He disappeared nearly five days ago, and I have not received a letter from him or his confessor. I am very worried about him, and if you know anything, I will appreciate it."

"Milady honors me with her trust, but I know nothing." She couldn't hide her deep dissatisfaction, however, the next words roused her interest at once. "Alber only told me they would be gone for a week and it has something to do with the military campaign they are taking a part of."

It frustrated anew. Her stepson was going to join the king's army at the walls of Calais, and besides that there was no plot. Or was there something deeper she missed?

"Tell me, Jean," she forced a pleasant smile unsure of how pleasant it could look on her face now, but the youth didn't notice her doubts, "if you knew of something very important, something that would threaten the fate of whole France… would you tell me that?"

Jean's eyes sparked, his eagerness more evident when he received a little _encouragement_ from her; she could almost picture what was going through the young mind at the moment, his desire for fame, recognition alacrity to serve her and be of any use other than a simple page.

"If I ever hear it, milady would be the first one to know."

* * *

They were walking side by side, leaving a visible trail of footsteps on the snow-covered ground. It was a first touch of cold, a first breath of winter, and the thin carpet would soon melt, leaving nature around them barren and gloomily one-colored. They were following a narrow path through a thin forest with sunless skies above, the star of the day hiding behind thinnest gossamer of clouds, but white snowflakes were no longer falling around them.

Sephiroth was holding reins of the only horse they were left with for traveling; to save the steed's strength, lovers were walking on foot, and although it slowed them down, it also gave time to contemplate on what they had achieved and failed to achieve.

Sephiroth was satisfied with the picture he saw. So far, most villages were crushed by unbearably high taxes, and the dissatisfaction with Philippe's actions was only growing. Without a leader it was merely a disorganized crowd that posed no threat to any region's cavalry, but if he chose the route of his army so that it would go through all those villages, every stop would provide him with additional forces. It couldn't foment anything but a content smile on thin lips which flickered and disappeared once his gaze fell onto his lover. Genesis wasn't looking at him, perhaps, still feeling umbrage for the words he spoke the night before, but it had to be done. While the viscount could tolerate some of his redhead's whimsical escapades, there was a limit to everything, including his patience. This campaign was to be taken with all possible seriousness, and sooner or later his lover would understand that; otherwise they would never be standing side by side in this long and tortuous journey.

The forest around them was unnaturally silent, no bird singing or flapping its wings, no other beast finding its way through the barren bushes, only white linen of a narrow path was slowly lying down under their feet; so when Genesis asked a question, it rang unexpectedly loudly.

"Remember, some days before the battle of Crecy, I asked you a question. You refused then. Will you listen to me now?"

"What question?" Sephiroth strained his memory, but events prior to the shameful defeat were reluctant to arise in his mind, notably those very close to it. "Are you talking about Avignon? I answered your…"

"Wait, I don't want to hear anything before you give me time to explain what I mean."

The knight gracefully shrugged, patting the noble steed's neck until it sniffed. Unlike that summer day when Genesis decided to leave because he was unwilling to spill blood for his cause, the redhead's words roused nothing besides a faint trace of interest now. This time he knew blood would be spilled, and if his lover's desire to besiege Avignon wasn't just a whim, he as well might see the reason to it.

"All right, I promise I will hear you out."

The redhead flashed a smirk in return, one of those reflecting his superiority and arrogance rather than mockery. "Once you hear me out, you will be unable to refuse. The story is long…"

"We have time, Genesis." Sephiroth assured his lover, gesturing towards the long clearly outlined in the wilderness path.

"Then I shall start from the very beginning…" The redhead lingered, gathering his thoughts, then flashed a sapphire spark at him, a scorching one, like a scintilla of his inner fires. "It began with Clement and Peter Abelard's teachings whereat he suggested to question the discrepancies in the Holy Bible and explain them with logic rather than with faith. I followed his path, but the amount of those discrepancies was overwhelming to a point when a logical picture could no longer be formed. No matter how hard I tried, the answers would not fit. One of my questions was why Christianity, proclaiming to be the humblest and the meekest of all religions, instead of peace brings bloodshed, instead of love – hatred, tears and more blood?"

"I…"

"I know what you are thinking about. Human mind is perverted; that's what some of Cathars thought. We are unable to understand God's grandeur and mercy, and love, we misinterpret the Holy text, but… tell me, why didn't we misinterpret Aristotle's _Metaphysics_ and waged wars for his ideas instead of Christ's? Or Plato's words? Not that I am saying they could not be misinterpreted, but to lead to a bloodshed the flaw has to be within the text, within the Idea, no matter what first impression you get when you delve into the lines." Sephiroth said nothing, simply nodded for the redhead to continue, thoughtful to nearly full obliviousness of the surroundings. "I told you of the first flaw of proclaiming itself in possession of absolute divine truth, thus making it impossible for two absolutes to survive peacefully. The problem is that any human being will interpret some passages of the Bible as he sees them, and he will be right in his own way. But imagine what happens if all preachers interpreted the text differently, yet one point in their argument would remain the same and that is about the absolute truth, leading each one of them to believe that he was more _right _than his rival."

"Absolute truths cannot peacefully coexist," Sephiroth repeated his own words spoken so long ago. It was early spring then; now it was late fall.

"It is but half of a problem. The truths might want to eliminate each other, but without a second flaw the conflict can still be peacefully resolved. However, it becomes impossible when the text suggests or subtly hints that heretics, or those who misinterpreted the Holy Scripture, should be punished. It took me time to find that flaw, but to no surprise it was there, in the text." And Genesis cited with bedazzling triumphant smile. "_If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned._"

Sephiroth's eyes slightly widened as he realized what he was hearing. He was never attentive enough while reading Bible, mainly because of its servile attitude towards people, and he was not about to kneel before anyone, deities included. But to think that…

"… It was not just our human perverted mind that enjoys watching others suffer," the redhead continued his thought as though reading from his head, " which invented auto-da-fe, in other words burning a person at stake. How else can one interpret casting a withered branch into fires? Or, as Titus wrote - _man that is a heretic after the first and second admonition reject_. That is what gave Catholic Church that absolute power, that strength to dominate Europe and bring monarchs to their knees. The power was to punish anyone who rejects their divine truth, divine but as flawed as an apple with golden skin and a rotten core. It happened subtly, and about ten centuries passed before the first heretic was burnt alive, but it matters little. The flaw is never completely external, never the concurrence of fickle circumstances. It has to be within the person if we are to question one's decisions or within the Idea if we are to understand an outcome whereto it leads."

Sephiroth shivered, hiding his free hand in his pocket to warm fingers that grew numb while he didn't even notice, listening to Genesis talking about things he never thought of himself, but should have unless – as his lover said – he wanted to walk a path in his life blind.

"Now I finally understand what you meant by the words that we never understood God, a God who is _Deus absconditus_."

Genesis laughed, and this time it reminded Sephiroth of chime of melodic bells, "We could not, as we were either wrong about him loving the world and sacrificing his Son so that we would have an everlasting life, or about the Bible, which is a creation of human beings, like us, who didn't necessarily foresee what their Holy text could beget. Either way – whether God laughed at us or He never proclaimed those ideas – we are waging wars, killing our children and beloved, forsaking our own kind for a lie, for a hollow illusion that there is someone watching us, guiding us, and in the desperate hour we are not here alone. It is not even a delusion or blindness. It is a plague of a human mind worse even than a plague of a human body."

"But there is nothing we can do about it, for others will believe in it no matter what you say and what arguments you will provide them with," traversed Sephiroth, to which Genesis stubbornly shook his head.

"We can at least show the world that the Catholic Church is not almighty."

"Is it why you want to besiege Avignon?"

"Partially." His lover took his free hand out of his pocket and gently ran his warm fingers along the slender lines. "If we capture the Pope's city, the question of a bastard inheriting the French throne can be easily resolved." Azure eyes were smiling as Genesis said it with such ease as though he was talking about an evening meal. "If the Pope himself were to crown you, no European monarch would ever question your bloodline."

That much was true.

"I'll think about it," Sephiroth honestly promised, since he could promise nothing more, and yet it was then that he thought about the Templar Knights for the first time.

* * *

Genesis ran upstairs with lightness, jumping over the creaking steps. This time his little act went without incidents, and once again he was content to discover that people were frustrated with the current King. All they needed was a little push, and he would happily give it to them.

Sephiroth didn't watch his performance until the end, having decided to work on the maps in their room upstairs, away from the boisterous atmosphere of the main premises. His lover often preferred silence and solitude.

The redhead carefully opened the door to their shared room not to distract his lover from work, but it appeared Sephiroth was sleeping. A single candle stood on the table dripping wax onto the parchment, and as he worked, in the chair, goose quill clenched in his left hand, his lover fell asleep. His silver head rested on the wooden back of the chair, his right palm – on the armrest.

Genesis froze by the threshold, closing the door with timidity. Although he knew he would have to wake Sephiroth, this was a sight he wanted to watch, to memorize, and to cherish every time he remembered. The sight of his lover sleeping. Again, there was this strange image of fragility half concealed by almost impossible refined beauty, yet every curve, every line, every feature – if the redhead looked closer – betrayed the nearly iron willpower sleeping under the deceptively soft shroud of slumber.

Such willpower was born to bend the world to its holder's desire or die trying.

With the thought clinging to his mind with a slightly unpleasant tinge to it, the redhead stole up to his lover. His fingers adroitly undid the laces of the flaxen undershirt, let it loosely fall around the chiselled shoulders, a delicate black lace around the icy-white skin, so immaculately white he thought his breath might leave mist when he bent down to kiss a spot on his lover's neck. It was warm, and underneath his lips Genesis felt a thin vein throbbing ever so slightly. The redhead knew Sephiroth woke up the moment his arms twined around his lover's shoulders, yet not a flicker of silvery eyelashes betrayed he did.

At least the knight always shared his warmth.

"How did it go?" Sephiroth suddenly asked without opening his eyes.

"Better than the last time." A short silken lock curled around his finger; it was the color of ice, or of the white falling snow. It was cool to touch, but it promised of flames if the redhead drew just a little closer and joined their lips, tenderly at first, with passion thereafter. "So, did you decide?"

"You woke me up just to find out whether I wanted to comply with your desires? Your selfishness is impossible to bear."

Emerald eyes were still closed, and the words rang as nothing but teasing.

"What if I did? Will you deny me?"

There was a smile on the knight's face, and the redhead could barely suppress an urge to forget about Popes and his plans and simply kiss those lips, a gentle curve of bliss and perfection.

"I've made my decision. We will besiege Avignon."

Genesis wished he could hide his triumph, yet doubted his face didn't reflect it all.

Then they kissed.


	31. Chapter XXX: Saints and sinners

_A/N:_ _**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Matins_ – (or the 'Vigiliae'), an obligatory everyday prayer in the Medieval monastery that usually started between 2:30-3:00 in the morning. _Lauds_ – between 5:00 and 6:00am.

_Inter alia (lat.)_ – by the way.

* * *

_**Chapter XXX.**_

_**Saints and sinners.**_

"_Weave the crimson web of war!  
Let us go, and let us fly…__" (T. Gray, 'The Fatal Sisters')._

They found a monastery at dusk of one of the last days of their journey. The road took a sharp turn, suddenly revealing a small fortress bathing in fading sunlight. A crimson star seemed to shine above it, but when Genesis took a closer look, the delusion appeared to be a narrow beam of light playing crimson on the iron cross that crowned the main chapel. It was one of those isolated places situated near the village and yet separated from the sordid human dwelling by tall walls and bound round with iron gates. Genesis knew those monasteries all too well; kingdoms within a kingdom they were, ruled by abbots rather than kings and devoted to Popes more than to any European monarchy.

This monastery's wealth obviously came from the vast vineyard that now stood bare and mercilessly abandoned to the flurries, which were common in this part of France. In spring and summer monks would meticulously tend to the vines until they produced fruit in abundance, then sell wine to cities or villages in vicinity, and money they received in return helped them last a cold and even long winter.

The redhead could only guess that this wine grape was frost-hardy.

"Quite impressive, isn't it?" To his right Sephiroth mused quietly, obviously referring to the vineyard.

The redhead, however, wasn't in the mood to marvel at the barren plantations of wine grapes. He was once again freezing and, unlike his lover, who endured all hardships and weather changes with admirable stoicism, couldn't say that his moods didn't suffer. They were walking uphill now, and the road underneath was covered with thin tracery of ice, crunching every time the redhead stepped on it. Their horse trudged slowly after carrying both of them for hours, and Genesis was trying to stick with it for whatever little additional warmth the animal could offer.

"Aha," he mumbled without enthusiasm in response to his lover's observation, wrapping himself tighter in the cloak, if that was even possible, "why don't we hurry before monks finish their vespers? If we miss supper, we might not have anything to eat this evening."

The reaction to his words was the one he knew so well, a superficial indifference like a thinnest veil hiding mirth. Having moved a crooked branch of a tree aside, his lover looked up, and a wave of silver cascaded over his shoulders, a river bound in virgin white ice. Genesis followed the glance of emerald eyes to see what attracted Sephiroth's attention an instant before the dreary sound of cawing reached his ears. Above them hundreds of black wings dotted clear mauve welkin as a flock of crows rose in the air from the barren branches.

"For some reasons I remembered the legend about the ravens kept in the tower of London. Do you think they ever desired to fly like their free kindred?"

"How can they wish for something they never tasted?"

The faint smile was now hiding in the corners of Sephiroth's thin lips as a sunlight spot. "You have to contradict me even when I was simply thinking about freedom."

Genesis shot a mordant glance at his silver-haired lover the latter calmly ignored. "And all _I_ can think about is a hot supper and a warm bed."

An almost inaudible "_humph_" was the only answer he got.

The vague contours of a small monastery on a hill gained a trenchant shape, and the pathway soon ended, having set against the wooden gates. Sephiroth raised the heavy knocker and let it fall with a loud thud, but before he signalled against the door again, an answer came therefrom. A young lay brother, who served as a porter at the gates, recognized his lover at once, how and for what merits, the redhead did not know. The youth's face wreathed in a bashful smile as he noticed a silver glimpse, and the rusty iron lock creaked at once.

"Just a moment, messire."

The doors hospitably opened before them, and the lay brother made a low bow to the silver-haired knight. Anew, Genesis felt that prick of familiar, even if almost forgotten jealousy to his lover's title and fame. In his mind he understood they have already left this petty issue behind them, but in his heart found it hard to let go. The battlefield at Crecy almost forgotten by now – almost, since the nightmare of that day could never be effaced from his memory completely – the redhead felt a surge of those old feelings, remembering the reason whereof he would never speak aloud, since it was the reason that tore them apart one peaceful summer day. He didn't think Sephiroth had endless patience to bear his jealousy, and so he had but one choice to restrain himself from saying a word.

Sephiroth responded with dignity; it was after that meeting with the Duke that Genesis began to notice how his lover's responses were becoming more and more befitting to a king than to a viscount.

"I would like to see the Abbot."

"Of course, messire du Bugey, this way, please," the youth hastily mumbled, eyes humbly downcast and fingers twiddling with his frock. Why were these children always so bashful in his lover's presence, staring at him with silent adoration? At times like these Genesis knew what he loved in the silver-haired knight most of all, and that was his own reflection even if mirrored in hazel eyes of a green youth. "We have just finished the vespers."

They hastily crossed the vast courtyard, meeting a few hooded figures, who didn't acknowledge them, dived under the salient arch of exquisite craftsmanship, and finally plunged into relaxing warmth of a heated refectory.

The supper has barely begun, but no matter how much Genesis wanted to eat, he had to wait to be introduced to the Abbot.

The Abbot turned out to be a small stout man garbed in a dark cassock longer than he needed with his height, and so the flaps were sweeping the floors as he approached them. Likely, he received the frock from his predecessor, and didn't bother to trim it.

The redhead disliked Benedictines, but then he disliked any coenobite, in other words a monk living in a monastery bound by monastic rules. However, he had to admit to himself that the Benedictines were among the least zealous monks, if that was even possible in his times.

His lover greeted the old man exceptionally politely, even if without the common servility people of any estate were used to expressing when meeting with clergy, yet Genesis stood aloof and watched them silently. The memories about his mother's execution were not as lucid as before, the wounds have closed, but the enmity ran with blood in his veins, and only their blood was to set him free.

Blood and truth.

"Good evening, father," Sephiroth's deep and quiet voice sent shivers down his spine, but the Abbot seemed unaffected by its power as he was.

"You can call me father Celestine, my son," the cheerful old man had to stand atiptoe to put a hand on Sephiroth's shoulder in the ever so familiar paternal manner of elderly monks. "But, forgive my senile forgetfulness, you must be hungry and tired. Brother cellarer!" A young monk with sparse beard appeared at once, as if summoned from the nether world. "Prepare two more meals and get the best of our wine for these noble guests. Inter alia, I forgot to ask your companion's name, messire."

Genesis watched the young cellarer hastily disappear through the kitchen doors, wondering what lie Sephiroth would come up with to cover their affair. He suspected the viscount wouldn't divulge he was a Dominican brother, and he wasn't wrong.

"This is Genesis, my squire."

The redhead chuckled under his breath; he certainly looked a lot younger than he was, but… squire? Maybe, in candle lit semi-darkness he could pass for a squire.

"Good. Then I will ask to prepare one cell for you both."

"I will appreciate it, father."

_Of course he will. _With one of those innocent expressions on his face that deceived people so easily, Genesis stepped out of the shadows and with a bow to the Abbot proclaimed in his most caring voice.

"And make it one of the most recluse ones, father. My master… snores."

Deathly quiescence hung in the air until Sephiroth suddenly burst out laughing, and the old monk followed with no less eagerness. "Your squire is a notorious wag, messire. But I'll make sure you won't be disturbed."

The old Abbot hurried to take his place at the head of the long table whereat monks gathered for meals, and only then did his silver-haired lover glare at him, calm and yet clearly displeased.

"And what was that, Genesis?"

The redhead moved his shoulder sharply, "Do you want to be _alone_ this night or not?"

By the look on marble face Genesis safely judged his lover did.

The meal was quite plentiful, and soon the redhead began to doze, warmth supplemented by the feeling of full stomach sending him into blissful oblivion. The conversation at the table didn't help but sharpen his tedium, and each moment he was fighting overwhelming desire to nestle up to his lover and fall asleep. Sephiroth, however, was as vigilant as ever, moreover, soon got engrossed in a conversation with the Abbot, and all hope Genesis had to leave the meal and find a place to stay alone with his silver-haired lover soon was lost. So the redhead hearkened to the quiet voices, one of which belonged to the viscount, and tried not to stare too obviously, playing the role of a squire.

Sephiroth was speaking.

"I have been traveling these parts for a week now, and heard strangest rumours, father. I thought, perhaps, you could shed some light onto them."

The old Abbot shook his hoary head and didn't fail to avail himself on the opportunity and wet his throat with wine before giving a long answer.

"_Above all things, let him take heed not to slight or make little account of the souls committed to his keeping, and have more care for fleeting, worldly things than for them._ These are the words of our founder, St. Benedict, may God bless his soul. And therefore an old man like me doesn't pay much attention to mundane matters, but rather lives with his eyes raised to heaven in expectation of the Lord's judgment." Celestine dramatically threw his eyes up with the most pious expression. "But… there were rumors, words spoken by mendicant brothers or travelers, that the king lost a huge battle. The more recent visitors talked about a burnt inn in the nearby settlement. I don't know what to believe in these dark times, messire."

They were sly foxes, abbots and monks, hiding behind their rules as though they were walls. Genesis scoffed with disdain.

"The battle at Crecy was indeed lost with heavy casualties. My father fell on the battlefield."

"Valiant Count Louis?" Celestine flung his arms up with a loud exclamation. "This is terrible news. We haven't heard of his death yet. Poor messire Louis, may his soul rest in peace. What about his little son? This must be a huge responsibility lain on his shoulders."

"The regency over Nevers and Flanders has now passed onto me. But as for other rumours you mentioned, I have not heard any."

Genesis could see a thin smirk half-hidden in silver tresses.

"Now I remember, messire." Celestine humbly cast his eyes down. "Memory sometimes lets an old man down. A man came seeking refuge behind our walls three days ago. He was in such a hurry that made his horse lather. That man told me about the burnt inn and a drunken unrest against our king. I was never fond of those savage peasants…"

"What about Philippe?"

"It is easy to see the mote in thy brother's eye, messire. God chose him as our vicar, and who would I, a paltry human being, be to question His wisdom?"

Genesis felt his lips curve into an unattractive smirk anew. God's wisdom… didn't men have their own?

Sephiroth just nodded, and the rest of the meal passed by in silence.

When they finally left the refectory, Genesis let himself sigh with relief. "God damn it, Seph," he blasphemed, "I though this would never end." Sephiroth looked at him with an enigmatic smile, and it suddenly dawned upon the redhead. It wasn't a fortuity that they visited this monastery, and he didn't fail to express his doubts immediately. "Don't tell me we stopped here accidentally."

"We didn't."

They were walking down the empty corridor now, alone, his lover's light and swift strides sending rustling sounds echoing through the hallway. Their shadows quivered on the walls, above them, behind them, and those were their only silent companions, so Genesis spoke frankly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't? I must have forgotten then." His lover lingered as if trying to find the best explanation for his reflections. "This is the only monastery in the vicinity. For his escape he had to have taken this route, staying as far from villages as possible to avoid further confrontation. I wasn't wrong. I had to make sure he was harmless."

"You are…"

"One can never be too careful."

Of course, he should have guessed, Sephiroth would not forget that matter with the king's man so easily. At times, his lover was rational beyond his ability to understand, but then they were so different he didn't have to understand the knight all the time.

Having dismissed all thoughts, the redhead yawned into his lover's shoulder, hand slipping under the loose shirt and snaking around the curves of slender waist.

"We'd better sleep, darling, or we'll miss the Matins." One silver eyebrow silently arched with that faint and soft smirk of his that appeared on thin lips whenever Sephiroth didn't want to ask an obvious question. "I know we are guests, but monastic rules apply to everyone, guests like us included. The Abbot will expect us…"

Having thoughtfully nodded, his lover captured his lips with passionate demand, and, all words notwithstanding, Genesis understood that they were going to have a long and restless night.

* * *

Sephiroth was desperately trying to suppress yawns and keep his eyes open to the loud but plaintive litany the monks were solemnly singing in Latin. To his left, Genesis was leaning all his weight upon him, unable to keep his back straight, and his lover's auburn head cosily resting against his shoulder didn't help either.

…_Benedicite, omnia opera Domini, Domino;  
Laudate et superexaltate eum in saecula…_

A monk with a lantern was walking down their isle, peering at his fellow Benedictines through the flickering light and giving those who fell asleep an unambiguous nudge. Then the monks would mumble something incoherent and straighten, their discordant voices joining a strong, clear singing of the choir wafted to their ears from the nave.

…_Benedicite, caeli, Domino,  
Benedicite, angeli Domini, Domino…_

"Genesis," Sephiroth softly whispered into his lover's ear.

"Hmmm."

"Wake up. The warden of vigilance is coming."

"A warden of..." At last, Genesis raised his head with a soft chortle, "...of vigilance? That is the first time I hear anyone call those monks like that…"

The monk with the lantern neared them and glared above the yellow glow, his eyes resembling those of an owl. "You are in God's place, sires. Hush." A couple of hooded figures turned their way, but the warden was already moving off; Sephiroth's eyes followed him until creaking of the dangling lantern was barely heard in the sounds of litany and its soft light – barely seen in semi-darkness.

"Tell me," he then bent forward to Genesis, and his calm whisper together with silver tresses tickled the redhead's ear, "did you often fall asleep during the Lauds?"

"Hush, darling, we are in God's place. Show some _respect_."

A slender palm unnoticeably covered his mouth, and underneath it Sephiroth felt his lips stretching in a smirk. Having raised his head, he found the Abbot, then his eyes slid to the nave anew whereat the choir of lay brothers was completing the solemn hymn. A loud echo, a cry of the desperate and abandoned, lifted high to the indifferent skies, a futile plea it was to the knight's ears.

_Domino… Domino…_

After Matins, Sephiroth hardly remembered how he got back to the monastic cell, as he fell into the blackness of dreamless slumber as soon as his head touched the rough pillow on the narrow bed. He awoke again in time for Lauds, however, deciding that nothing – not even the Apocalypse – was going to make him leave his bed, soon fell asleep again.

When the viscount and his lover left the monastic cell they were staying at, faint morning light was seeping through the small windows of the Abbey, and its modest life has been boisterously seething in every corner. Monks returned to their everyday duties, feeding the livestock and singing praise to God, which reminded Sephiroth that they should be returning to their duties as well.

"Are you already leaving, messire du Bugey?" The Abbot, whom they met in the hallway, astutely mentioned, having noticed what they were heading for. Sephiroth nodded, gesturing to his lover that he wanted to speak to the hoary man alone.

"Yes, father. And, please, accept our apologies for not being able to be present at Lauds…"

"Ah, don't mention it. I forgave you, my son," the old Abbot magnanimously smiled, claiming his hand with his trembling one. "After all, monastic life is not for everyone, only those most pious could sacrifice so much for our Lord."

"Of that I am most certain," Sephiroth replied, slightly mocking the modesty ascribed to God's servants, and followed the Abbot into the courtyard. Genesis must have already left, for there was no sign of his redheaded lover. "But there was another issue I wanted to speak to you about. I heard you were selling the best tanned leathers in vicinity, and wanted you to make a large delivery of, say, two hundred of them."

"Tanned leathers? What do you need them for, my child?"

"For the military campaign at Calais," answered the knight, having turned his back to the Abbot and looked up. The air smelled of snow.

"God be with you, messire, if you want to join that war. Our Majesty needs everyone now, in such dreary times as these. Our Lord wasn't merciful to the young generation, my son, for I can see deep sadness and pain in your eyes, sadness and yet resolve. An old man like me can only shake his head, remembering his early years and how different they were." The Abbot did shake his head, as if complaining or offering him pity he didn't ask for. "I will do what I can, and in memory of your valiant father I won't charge you as much."

"Thank you, father," Sephiroth's lips thinned into a straight line when his father was mentioned, but extended the amount the monk named with an imperturbable expression. The Abbot reminded him of a defeat he would rather forget. "But what if time for a change has come, father? Will you welcome it?"

The Abbot studied the viscount's face for one long moment, as if trying to understand what hid behind the finely chiselled features and shining emerald eyes, but nothing reflected on marble face, only silver tresses were gently fluttering in cold wind. "I don't know, my son, I am too old for a change, but if it comes, with God's help I will live through it."

"I understand, father."

Not that Sephiroth expected more. The lay brother ran up to them, holding the rein of his horse, and his cordial host understood it was time to say their farewells.

"It has been an honor, messire. If you ever travel to these parts again, the doors of my modest parish will always be opened to you." The old Abbot bent over Sephiroth's slender hand, and trembling fingers brushed against his in the last farewell. The knight thanked him with a curt nod and watched the hunched up frame disappear behind the wooden, bound round with metal doors of a rich monastery.

Sephiroth studied the building for another minute or so, then resolutely flung himself into the saddle, inhaling the invigoratively fresh air. A faint smile flickered on the viscount's thin lips, reflected in deep emerald eyes, and then the usual blank expression returned, icy pallor and silver hardly betraying thoughts that at the moment flashed in his mind.

…_The bed was too narrow, the coverlet – coarse, but between kisses Sephiroth hardly noticed the lack of amenities, only smoothness of ivory skin between his fingers and grace of flexures under his palms. Underneath, Genesis was a strained arch, bending towards him, his head tilted back and luscious_ _auburn locks scattered on the straw mattress in inveigling disarray. The redhead's breath was his, the redhead's skin burnt under his lips, and between trembling eyelashes sapphires dimmed and flamed up anew each time he smothered Genesis' most sensitive spots with kisses. His lover's slender legs were wrapped around his waist, narrow hips moving with his in lustful unison to the melody of the latter's faint moans._

_It was the purity of bliss nearing perfection…_

There was another smile on Sephiroth's thin lips, another shade of now fading reminiscent. If the old monk knew what was going on in the monastic cell the night before, he would probably have a heart attack or at least be stricken by a malady hardly any less serious than the latter. The thought fomented a wave of youthful ardour Sephiroth almost always felt around his lover, and the steed dashed forward with the same briskness and pep. The thick mane was proudly fluttering in the wind, and for a moment there were indigo banners before his eyes, hundreds of them flying across the winter skies growing crimson from sheens of dying sun.

The war will start soon.

Yesterday they finished riding around the villages, stirring trouble as Genesis called it, and aside from that minor incident with a burnt tavern, his plan went smoothly. Having sent a letter home to his squire, Sephiroth expected his army to start gathering before their return. The Duke adhered to their agreement meticulously, and the news from Calais convinced him that the campaign had to start at the beginning of November.

Genesis waited for him on the crossroads whereat one road lead back to Chateau de Thil, and the other – deeper into the barren thicket. The redhead's steed, graciously provided by the generous abbot, impatiently danced underneath him, its mood a reflection of his lover's.

"What took you so long?"

"The Abbot kept me longer than I expected," having halted by the redhead's steed, Sephiroth drew forward and adroitly kissed him on the lips.

"Did you tell him about last night?" A mischievous twinkle in azure eyes, Genesis returned the affectionate gesture, clinging to his mouth with satin softness of warm lips. Having blinked in delight, the redhead deepened the kiss, and he eagerly responded until horses tore them apart.

"In great detail."

Clenching the reins and hiding a smirk in the corner of his lips, Sephiroth guided his steed downhill.

It was time to go home.

* * *

Her face pale and eyes wide from fear, Kathy shrivelled up in the corner, trying to hide from Marguerite, who was screaming at her maiden for not guarding her when she slept. What if something horrible happened to them – the feeling that someone was watching her lingered from last night – and there would be none left to save her family from God's wrath? Some said God loved them, others – foam at the mouth – prophesized He was angry with His people and that the end was nigh.

It all mattered little.

They all had to be afraid of God, and Marguerite was.

Having blurted out her tirade, she watched her maiden drop a hasty curtsy, and heard her pitiful voice mumbling, "I… I simply came to tell milady that milord has arrived."

Kathy was in an instant forgotten. So Sephiroth returned, she thought, having run up to the lancet window in time to see both lovers dismount in the courtyard. Marguerite could recognize her stepson's long silver hair a league away, for once it was a dream, and now, nearly forgotten, turned into a nightmare. Genesis was by his side, always, and the things they did together… they could not be forgiven. Gasping for breath and fighting a roar in her head, the daughter of kings dashed towards the cupboard and hastily poured wine into two silver goblets that stood on a tray. A black bag with poison appeared in her hands; trembling fingers futilely dawdled with the laces until she tore it with an impatient shriek.

It was all suddenly clear to her. They both had to die. Now. Together.

The staircase seemed endless as did the hallway, for she was trying to walk as fast as she could and not spill a drop of poisoned wine. Both lovers were still in the courtyard when Marguerite emerged from the main doors, carrying a tray in her hands. Sephiroth was readjusting his saddle girth, and Genesis, animatedly gesticulating, was retelling a story of their recent – it seemed – adventures. However, seeing her approach, he fell silent, although Marguerite preferred he wouldn't. Fright overwhelmed her to a point when making a single step equaled to walking ten leagues barefoot on thorns and twigs.

It will soon be over… something whispered into her ear. Something? Someone? God?

Sephiroth straightened slowly, or it felt slowly only to her. There was nothing in his features she, even wishfully, could mistake for joy or at least anticipation of their meeting.

"Mother."

His voice, like myriad of stings, biting, unnerving… soon she will not be hearing this voice any more. Soon it will no longer torment her. All he had to do was drink wine she was offering.

"Welcome home, dearest."

Perhaps, it was her voice, perhaps, it was her smile, but Genesis flinched, accepting a goblet from her hands. There was something in those cerulean eyes, a shadow of doubt, a gleam of spite, or it simply was a sunlight spot flaring in depths she could never see the bottom to, but all of a sudden Genesis staggered and nearly fell into his lover's embrace. Sephiroth caught him as something utterly precious, having let go of his goblet, and two silver bowls fell and rolled on the ground. Scarlet liquid spilled onto the frozen grass, and startled Marguerite almost heard hissing of snakes as earth avidly imbibed crimson moisture.

It took her a moment to recover from numbness. Genesis was already straightening with an apologetic smile, and a lie passed his lips so smoothly.

"Sorry, Seph, I must have tripped over something."

Unsuspecting Sephiroth held out a hand to help his lover, but Genesis was gazing at her, eyes boring into hers and mockery swashing inside dark azure lakes.

He knew. A terrifying thought paralyzed her, the ground gave a lurch, and he was still looking and looking as though he truly knew.

_How?_

How could God lose to the power of the Devil and His Spawn?

She recoiled from both lovers and, getting tangled in long skirts of her black dress, ran from them as fast as she could.

* * *

"Extend!"

An order, cold and clear as steel itself, cut through silence, a swing of the enormous bastard sword following, the blade wielded with such deceptive ease it seemed a thin reed in his lover's hand, and lines of infantrymen scattered on the training grounds without losing formation, their shields raised high in the air. The glistening sword completed the circle, and the infantry fell on one knee, having bristled with spears when another order was issued in a wiry voice, "Lance!"

As soon as Sephiroth returned to the castle, he resumed routine training of his best forces, now including those who answered his call.

Genesis leaned against the wooden railing of the sand arena whereat he from time to time watched his lover train alone or with a rival. Watched and admired, inasmuch as one followed the other, always. The knight was a thin silver pillar, gliding above the ground, his strides measured and posture perfect. The evening glow caressed his pale skin, giving it color, giving Sephiroth's frame flames it seemingly lacked, and in this halo the redhead saw him as though for the first time. He didn't see a man he knew form the most sensitive spot on his neck to the scent of his perfume or a man he loved and conversed with every day. This Sephiroth was different; a glimpse of him Genesis caught on a battlefield two months ago.

For this Sephiroth his vassals were willing to die.

"Form up in two ranks!"

Then an earlier incident with Marguerite preoccupied him. It was very close this time, so close he nearly felt the chill breath of doom on his cheek, its numbing caress. It was by sheer luck that Genesis noticed the wine was poisoned; he used to kill monks with that same poison he got from an Italian alchemist in Toulouse. His lover's stepmother must have bought it from that slick bastard Lorenzo.

Genesis clenched his teeth, watching the silver-haired frame slowly pace along the lines of tired infantrymen.

He should have told Sephiroth about Marguerite's involvement with his father's death. He couldn't. He was afraid, whereof and why he could hardly express in coherent words. He was afraid of what was to follow the revelations, but how could it be any more frightening than finding his lover poisoned one day?

No, Genesis told himself, resolutely clutching the wooden sliver in his pocket, he will wait just a little bit more, twice as vigilant as ever, ignoring ominous signs until nothing would be standing in their way.

After all, the crimson web of war was nearly woven.

Having reassured himself in this way, Genesis waited until his lover finished the training session and greeted him with almost genuine cheerfulness.

"I have something for you." He found a silver band on his finger, a symbol, a promise, twirled it around in an absent-minded gesture. It was cold outside, and metal started to burn his skin.

"Which is?"

"You'll find out," the redhead gestured to the donjon and caught an impatient emerald glimpse in his lover's eyes, "soon enough."

His room with a small alcove was heated as in bitter winter frost; soft burgundy pillows were scattered on the large bed as in artistic disarray, and candles were lit, their flames gently flickering in misted windows.

"Take off your clothes."

To his amusement, Sephiroth shot an uncomprehending glance at him, telling "I don't understand," clearer than in any language known, to which the redhead responded with a playful arch of his eyebrow.

"There is something I wanted to do for you a long time ago." With a graceful move of his slender hand a cloth covering a stand fell down, revealing a blank canvas and a set of paints. "Alber procured the oils for me, such a loyal thing he is. Now take off your clothes."

Sephiroth appeared to be startled; running his fingers along the white linen of a canvas, he thoughtfully inquired, "Are you… are you going to paint me?"

Emerald eyes shone brightly from behind the veil of weightless silver, and for that look, for that faint smile, like a thin flourish of a quill, Genesis knew he would kill.

"In all your glory. Just like if you were a king."

A dark cloak slowly slid from chiselled shoulders, a cotardie followed in the same unhurried thoughtful manner. "You know… I don't even know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Genesis' fingers joined his lover's in untying buttons of the flaxen undershirt, then dived underneath the cloth, passing over the curves on his chest, over his shoulders in butterfly caresses. His breath quickened unwittingly when the belt landed on the floor with a loud clang, cloth following with a faint rustle, exposing everything that there was to expose, and it somehow felt sacred.

For a moment Genesis let his head rest on his lover's broad chest, then straightened and whispered, "Lie down."

Sephiroth obeyed, sliding onto the sheets with grace and reclining onto the burgundy pillow. "Is it how you want it?"

Genesis glanced over the sight before him, swallowed hard to keep his head cool and hands steady. It was crimson and silver affecting him, the thinnest web of fate that was woven of blood, steel and lust. Later, the redhead told himself. Later they will have all time in the world, but it still took moments to erase visions of them making love from his memory.

"No, lift your head higher… like this… I want you to look at the ceiling, not at me."

Sephiroth nodded, but soon emerald eyes returned to watch him, and there was something in them, something star-like.

"Tell me, what else do I not know about you?"

"Many things," he echoed with the wry smile, "and many are not worth knowing. But…" he finished, forestalling another question, "I forbid you to speak until I am done."

Having circled the stand, the redhead took a seat. It was hard to watch Sephiroth with indifference so exposed before him; it was hard not to desire him, it was hard not to think about his touch, his voice.

_If death is not to part us, I shall not abandon you…_

To render his thoughts blank, Genesis shot a glance towards the window, at icy linen of fields vague in misty glass, and thereupon resolutely picked up a brush. A first dab that would underlie his lover's body, tenderly showed on the white canvas, waterfall of silver followed, scattered like myriads of unconnected raindrops. It was a long time ago when he learned to paint, and every stroke required an unearthly strain. He didn't want to make a single mistake. He desired it to be perfect.

Like that, in silence, under the piercing glance of refulgent emerald eyes, he worked for hours until he could no longer paint. It would take him a couple of days to finish it, but Genesis already knew what he would write underneath the painting once it would be done.

"_Aut Caesar, aut nihil."_

Either Caesar, or nothing.


	32. Chapter XXXI: Crossroads and turns

_A/N:_ _**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Avance, mon ami!__ (fr.)_ – Go, my friend (avance = move forward).

_Dio __Cristo! (it.)_ - My God!

* * *

_**Chapter XXXI.**_

_**Crossroads and turns.**_

_"Shame on the soul, to falter on the road of life while the body yet endures." (M. Aurelius)._

Sephiroth was looking at himself drawn on the canvas, silver scattered among crimson, thinking that, perhaps, he has never seen anything more beautiful in his life; even his own reflection in the mirror, whereas lively and immaculate, lacked this godlike audacious perfection, accentuated by the small title underneath. Either Caesar or nothing, it said, and the theme was unexpected, yet felt right as if Genesis had seen through his soul, through its bottomless pit whereat memories of death and slaughter hid, shrouded in coldness and thus bearable; had seen through them and into the part whereat there was a hope for a new, shining future.

He was at the crossroads in his life when he would never settle for less than the French throne; all paths cut behind him, he had a chance to become everything, or remain nothing. There was no third choice, no shelter to take refuge should he fail, and no soul to beg for repentance – not that he ever will – if he was to face defeat and death.

Two choices, two halves there were.

One world – atwain.

Fingers clenched, numbing, posture straightened, stiffened, and, head thrown aloft, Sephiroth faintly smiled, his eyes bright with thought and sparked with hubris.

He will _not_ become nothing.

He must have let the latter words pass his lips.

"Just like Samael, don't you find it ironic?" Behind, Genesis echoed him, slowly uttering words in his melodic velvety voice, and the knight could see the mental image of his lover just as lucidly as though the redhead stood before his eyes. "To that, whereof I spoke before, I did not know the true meaning myself until now; until I could feel it in the air, breathe it with every breath. You are like him, like Samael, the angel who in his pride coveted to be like Creator Himself. They say he fell, but _Fallen_ truly is a name given when he plummeted from a pedestal he was risen to. A pedestal that to him meant nothing. Is it even a fall or ascendancy to freedom?" A laugh reached his ears, tickled his senses, sinking deeper, evoking sweet dither somewhere on the vague border of his consciousness and blackness of subconsciousness. The feelings were not new, but each and every time somehow different; protean sensations that essentially were the same.

Sephiroth knew he loved the redhead, loved rationally, as his mind was only capable of such love; never infatuated, never obsessed, never self-abasing, he could offer understanding, devotion and protection, and that, he believed, mattered most, not sweet and often meaningless words. No matter how many times he repeated words of love, they would not outweigh a single act he was ready to do in Genesis' name.

Therefore, he rarely spoke words. Even now, he did not know what to say, so that the sounds would not be insipid and unworthy of what Genesis did for him.

So he turned and simply said, "I appreciate it. A lot."

The redhead smiled, passing his fingers over the dried oils, tenderly – over the outlines of his body, almost deathly pale in the waves of vermilion velvet, "It is never tiring, to hear you say it, perhaps, since you say it so rarely. And rare gifts are those we welcome the most."

Sephiroth threw a glimpse at the scenery through the window; nothing seemed to be different from what he saw yesterday or the day before, those same barren trees shot their branches up towards the clouded skies, their bark silvered with rime and freezing in approaching cold. And yet, something unnoticeably changed today. He knew what it was, the date, the first of November, the beginning of a new beginning, or the beginning of an end.

Slowly, the viscount neared his lover, tightly wrapped his arms around his seemingly frail shoulders, as if from his warmth to draw more courage, more resolve, and closed his eyes in another minute flow of thoughts.

If it wasn't for Genesis, the plan would have mostly never worked so smoothly; his lover was a second half, a second heart of his scheme, but hardly less fervently beating than his own. He thought of a reward for the redhead should he succeed, a reward only a king was able to bestow him with, but nothing came to his mind. Once Sephiroth asked his lover what it was that the latter wanted after everything was over, but Genesis was as enigmatic as always.

"_If Avignon falls, I shall be free. There is nothing more I can ask of you, besides… besides keeping your promise and not marry a queen.__ And… being a king worthy to be called Sephiroth the Great. I will even be content with Sephiroth the Wise."_

Chuckling, the redhead smiled then; he was smiling now, a sunlight spot on the endless whiteness of approaching winter, and Sephiroth returned it in a light, almost chaste kiss. Genesis' palms slid along his back, settling on his waist, fingering the cloth of his loose undershirt, his head resting in the crook of his neck, perfectly shaped to match it.

"I am going to tell them today, those closest to me. I have to rely on their ability to understand and their loyalty to me and my father," the silver-haired viscount began quietly, "but I cannot keep my intentions secret any longer. I wish this could be avoided, but after Calais numerous questions will appear. I want them to understand that this is not going to be a war with England; it is going to be a war with France as well."

"How can you trust them?"

"I cannot. I can only handle it the usual way," there was a wry smile on thin lips and a dark gleam in emerald eyes, "threatening the traitors with the punishment beyond their wildest imagination, to burn their castles and slaughter their families, to eradicate even the memories of them. After all, fear is the best language to speak in if there is no devotion." His voice gained a rueful note, but it sank in the usual rather emotionless words soon thereafter. "I have three thousand infantrymen and five hundred heavy cavalry, there or thereabout. I have trained them against the English longbows, and my new shields, those I shall order to make before the battle, will, likely, prove to be unstoppable against them. However, the irony is that I have nothing special to oppose to Philippe's army, hoping that my forces joined with the Duke's will overpower his."

Genesis raised his head with a tender smile gracing his lips, tender, Sephiroth had to admit to himself, yet not without a slight hint of innate mockery so faint he would have missed it if it wasn't for all those months they spent together. He knew his redhead a lot better now.

"You worry too much," an elegant finger traced a line on his cheekbone, azure eyes as bottomless wells he was ready to sink in and find his eternal peace if it wasn't for his long craved ambition. "You will do just fine."

"No one is perfect, Genesis. No one. Not even me."

"I would bet my left arm you are."

Sephiroth laughed, letting go of his lover and throwing a cotardie over his shoulders Genesis' fingers then meticulously buttoned.

"They are waiting for me, but I hope it won't take long."

…His vassals gathered whereat he asked them to, in a small room behind the chapel with the wooden crucifix he often prayed before when he was a child and when he believed in prayers. They failed him so often that his innate rationality finally denied any God's involvement in his creation's life, if he existed that is.

There were ten of them in the room, his and before that – his father's most loyal and trusted allies; they knew he was reputed to be harsh, fair and cruel if need be. He could respond in kindness to devotion, but to treachery and lies he was merciless.

Emerald eyes slid along bearded, weather-beaten faces, some smarter than the others, some more opened and sincere, and then Sephiroth resolutely closed the door behind himself with force, as though cutting every sound and color of the previous life.

After all, none of them would be returning to their previous lives.

Sephiroth did not like to give speeches, did not like verbosity and florid style; since that speech in his castle in spring nothing changed in his attitude. However, this time he had to make an exception to see who would quail, have misgivings, or generally decide to disavow him.

His fingers involuntarily ghosting over the handle of his bastard sword, Sephiroth approached the middle of the room, halted in the wide beam of light that morning lavishly poured through the window and began, not knowing of the hunched up boy, who stood, ears glued to the door and, trembling from fright, listened to his every word.

"Valiant sires," his deep proud voice attracted attention at once, and all the small gentry – barons, viscounts and reduced to penury counts – quieted under his austere gaze. "In these troubled times I have rallied you before we set out towards Calais whereat our enemy awaits us. I shall not speak of your feats, however numerous they are, I shall not boast of mine, for it is about the future I want to think today, not the past." Sephiroth paused, eyes for a moment closed. "We suffered a defeat at Crecy, and it is my greatest desire not to repeat our mistakes, and lead you to victory this time. However, Edward is not the most dangerous foe of ours; it is our lack of resolve and skill that led us from one defeat to another. It is our blindness that let the French throne to be occupied by an enemy more perilous, for he disguised himself as our friend."

The silver-haired viscount lapsed into silence, eyes sliding from one quiescent man to another, but only one vassal dared to rise and irresolutely remark, "Messire, you are talking in riddles."

Sephiroth inaudibly sighed. It was time to reveal everything as it was, and so he spoke as straightforwardly as he could, and it seemed words returned to life, shapeless – took shapes and gained new meanings.

About France he spoke, its pride trampled upon and dignity humiliated in numerous defeats, about every knight's duty to stand by his master's side, about change and times to rise under a new banner to restore their motherland in its former glory under his reign.

His words scorched as newborn ice, flew up as tongues of raging flames, flowed softly as if cajoling, but only a deaf man would call it adulation; he spoke insinuatingly at times, at times harshly and clearly, inspired by something more than just a goal to claim a throne.

He spoke and – silver cascading along his shoulders and arms crossed on his chest – he seemed otherworldly, as though he did not belong thereat and at the same time as though there was no other place he belonged more to.

He never spoke like that before and, likely, never will again.

When he finished, there was faint murmur spreading in the room and then – silence.

When he finished, he knew he had succeeded.

* * *

"Your stepson, milady, wants to claim the French throne for himself." Jean concluded his short speech with an expression of an assiduous student on his face and froze, awaiting her approval, but Marguerite knew not what to say.

In her mind it was like a black pit spreading and engulfing her, coherent thoughts fading to mumbles of pathetic voices, now so may she wanted to scream to free her mind from their presence.

Sephiroth has tricked her again, outsmarted as if she was a silly girl. While she was busy preparing poison, he secretly triumphed, laughing at her blindness and, likely, already knowing everything about her petty intrigue from Genesis, decided not to act simply out of pity.

Her body shook in a violent tremor, and she had to lean onto the table not to fall. The world was torn asunder once again, and only wine could help, flowing down her throat and burning, choking her. She coughed, rejecting the scarlet liquid she breathed in with air, fingers helplessly clawing the tablecloth, missing the goblet that fell onto the floor, rolled on the carpet, softly.

Sephiroth laughed at her all her life, at her pitiful feelings, and, perpetual darkness streaming form his emerald eyes, black wing spread afar, he was laughing now. Marguerite recoiled, blindly waved a ghost of her stepson aside with a forced whisper, "Get thee gone, Devil," and it vanished, feathers falling around her, ashen-black and unnaturally huge. She kept crossing herself, moving backwards with that same frightened whisper, "Get thee gone, get thee gone," until her back rested against the wall as if it was her last salvo.

It was a quiet, bashful, "Milady, are you all right?" that tore her out of the frightening stupor that numbed her thoughts and body, like ice.

Her eyes darted towards Jean, who stared at her with a bloody smile, stretching from one corner of his lips to the other, which disappeared when she blinked. Howbeit, fear remained, having rooted her to the spot and clenched her heart with icy claws.

"Get out of my room, foolish boy!" Her scream lashed as a whip, awakening bewilderment, then fright on the youth's face.

"But, milady…"

"Leave me now!"

Sephiroth was going to become a king, something screamed inside her, a _king_, a God's vicar, a sinner on the Holy French throne and untouchable to her. He will be beyond her punishment, protected by the Devil himself, and it will be Satan ruling her country, not God, and the Almighty Lord will not forgive His people for forsaking His name in such a way. She had to stop it, avert the Judgement Day, and show that the flock was still loyal to the loving shepherd; the thought fomented her to act now, before it was too late.

Paying no heed to whether Jean was still around, Marguerite dashed towards her wardrobe, threw her clothing out of it and into a dark heap on the floor, frantically looked through it. Her husband's raiment was still there, among the everyday attire – being in no state to worry about such trifles, she never got the time to throw or give it away to her sons – and dark pair of loose pants with the same colored cotardie was easy to find. Not worrying about being properly clothed, she slipped from her lugubrious dress and quickly put the new set on. It didn't fit her, so she hastily pruned the extra cloth that hung, hampering her movements. Gold followed, neatly fastened to her dead husband's belt together with a small dagger, more a reassurance than any real protection, had she encountered highwaymen on her journey. Other than that, her preparations were very short, having ended when she finally straightened and shot a glance at the mirror that was replaced after she had broken its twin.

Akin to an old crow, a woman with pale tired face stared back at her, opal eyes lifeless and in the past luxuriant brown hair streaked with whiteness.

It would be her last journey, an indifferent thought flashed in her head, fright poisoning her mind for one long moment, whereupon familiar numbness returned.

It was in the hands of God now, her destiny, her will, her body and mind; nothing belonged to the daughter of kings, even her reflection.

Her plan was easy, too easy, but that was the only one she could come up with in her state. Marguerite was going to find Lorenzo, and the sleek merchant will bring her to Philippe's camp; thereat she would reveal her stepson's intentions before he made his move, thereby having lured him into a deadly trap and defeated. Brought to his knees, Sephiroth will have no other choice but to abandon his lover, or die with him; whatever he decides, God will be satisfied and benign to his faithful daughter.

_Sinners should walk a path on the broken glass until their feet would bleed and give away…_

Marguerite managed to slip by the main premises without being noticed by servants, her maiden included. In the courtyard she stopped the groom, who was leading a chestnut into the stables and without giving any explanations snatched the rain out of his hands and mounted.

The wind was almost unbearably fresh after the stale air of her chambers she did not leave for weeks, and Marguerite inhaled, feeling her head spin. A strong gust stole up to her, tangled in her warm cloak and scattered wiry thinning hair on her shoulders; staccato sounds of hoof beat blended with her heartbeat so loud she thought the whole world could hear it.

There was only one thought throbbing in her veins – she needed to flee.

At the outer gates a sentry stopped her, but more out of formality than of genuine suspicion. The drawbridge already lowering, the mustached foreman turned to her with a disapproving expression on his face and made a casual remark, "Milady shouldn't be riding alone, it's quite dangerous."

Marguerite nodded, words barely registering in her mind and thoughts merging with deafening clatter of hooves against wood and howls of piercing wind.

"Avance, mon ami," she whispered to her chestnut, gently stroking its glossy mane, as the horse carried her through the barren coppice and towards the main road to Nevers. "Avance."

...The sun has declined towards horizon when Marguerite stood in front of the all too familiar doors to the dwelling of the Lombard; only months ago she stood there, full of hope her actions would bring her closer to her stepson, now she stood with no hope at all. It wasn't her hope to defeat Sephiroth, no, it was merely a foreign will that inexorably pushed her forward to the only doomed end. Her hand rose mechanically, as that of a weak-willed puppet, knocked, and soon a butler opened it; Genesis would immediately recognize the man had he been there.

"Milady," the polite surprise didn't impede Lorenzo's doorman from making a deep bow, "what a pleasant surprise. I shall inform my master at once."

Marguerite, however, was certain that the sleek Lombard would be less than half as joyous and surprised to see her. Having shot last wary glance back at the gloomy deserted street, she slipped inside and handed a traveling cloak over to the obedient servant. Aloud, he didn't make a single remark, seeing her clothed as a man, but he needed not to, unable to hide another surge of bewilderment and curiosity.

"This way, milady."

Buried in piles of papers, books and luxury of mahogany furniture, Lorenzo was in his study, as dark and bleak as it was in early summer whenas Sephiroth and Genesis had a deal made with him. Staggering from pain the furious pace of her long ride inflicted in her body, she dragged herself into the scanty lit room and slumped into the deep armchair, drained and unnerved. Only then did Lorenzo lift his head and eyed her with a flicker of fright in his dull eyes, but it elicited a smile – this time she was here not to abase herself.

"Why, in God's name, do you keep haunting me? I believed we had a final deal, and if you think you can keep coming to me begging for more money…"

She vehemently shook her head, dithering from both strange excitement and fright, subconsciously expecting the door to Lorenzo's house to burst open and her stepson to appear on the threshold. That would be the end then as he would effortlessly crush whatever little resistance the merchant could offer.

"We have to leave, now!" The words were forced in a strident voice, almost a shriek, for she would do anything not to meet avenger Sephiroth.

"Why…"

"I have no time to explain! He is coming after me!"

Lorenzo slowly rose to his feet, his face ashen, "Who is coming? Sephiroth? Does he know…"

The room gave a lurch, the cherry-wood and mahogany furniture darkened when Marguerite leapt up to her feet, now screaming as though life itself was leaving her, "Of course, it is Sephiroth!"

Then the last strength, already undermined by the strain of preceding days, left her, and the daughter of kings fell into blackness.

…She woke up with a splitting headache in surroundings strangely familiar, walls of wobbling wagon rising around her and dark ceiling with chimerical ornament floating in the air above. Or was the ornament just her imagination? Darkness and fog were seeping through the narrow chinks of windows, and it was hard to tell anything for certain, aside from the fact that she was being conveyed somewhere. For a moment overwhelming fright seized Marguerite, her broken mind lavishly offering a sight of a scaffold awaiting in haze and a hangman with a sword giving her a twisted, satisfied smile. Then a cold hand forced a goblet of icy water down her throat, and she clutched it, shedding tears onto the pale skin she deemed her stepson's, "Forgive me, my beloved, it is not my fault, it is his, this Italian bastard's…"

"Wake up, Marguerite," the voice rang as if from the deep well, a voice that could not belong to Sephiroth, and she looked around, reality finally snapping around her with the sight of a sleek face looming above.

She hastily sat up, calming down, and tried to strike a pose befitting to her title.

"Where are we?"

"Heading to the north," rang the unpleasant reply, and the wagon wobbled on the stone, sending jolts of sharp pain through her spine. "You burst into my house, screaming that Sephiroth was following you, and I naturally had to leave at once to save myself from your stupidity although I should have left you behind to the mercy of your stepson. I should have never even bothered to make that deal in the first place! It caused me so much trouble none of your withering _delights_ are worthy of."

"You don't understand, Lorenzo! You are a fool here, for you are once and for all stuck with me in it. This is our crime, and God showed me a way for repentance and cleansing, so who would you…"

"You are not just stupid, you are insane!" The merchant acrimoniously spat out, turning to the window. "Gani! Stop the wagon! I should just leave you to your troubles and flee to Italy while I am still alive."

"No, no, you can't," Marguerite drew forward and sprawled at Lorenzo's feet, her chin painfully hitting the rough floor when the wagon vehemently swayed again. "Don't you see, Sephiroth, my stepson is going to dethrone Philippe and become a king, my stepson, a nefarious sinner on the Holy French throne…"

"You are talking nonsense, foolish woman."

Was it disdain? It did not matter.

"We have to get to Calais and find the king's encampment before Sephiroth does. We cannot let the disaster happen…"

"Dio Cristo! Sephiroth is no one! It is his arrogance and his sword that made him famous in vicinity of Nevers, but other than here, he is a lowly viscount without a copper in his pocket and a piece of ancestral land to his vain title. If any beggar could claim the French throne, we would be in mayhem by now." Angered, Lorenzo pushed her aside, and swore in a florid style. "Brainless women, your kind is only good for fleeting pleasure – otherwise, it's utterly useless."

Mentally Marguerite had to admit the rightness of Lorenzo's words whereof she didn't think when Jean divulged her stepson's plans, but then a memory resurfaced, just a couple of words her husband once spoke about Sephiroth's heritage, yet now more than enough proof to convince her. She would clutch at straws now, and the memory was a solid string.

Her husband never bothered revealing anything to her, but three or thereby years ago she found him looking through some papers and last wills; thereat he, likely, by mistake let slip something about Sephiroth being of more noble origins than his legal son and those origins being kept secret from him. Her further inquiries proved to be futile, and she obediently forgot as any woman in her place would, but now the revelations were like a new sun rising above the wasteland.

"Sephiroth bears kindred with Capetian dynasty," her mind was frantically thinking of more lies to convince the merchant, only Marguerite didn't know that she was actually telling the truth, having guessed it by some miracle. "My husband once told me he was the bastard of Philippe the Handsome!" He had to be, she thought, for all other Capetian kings were too young or too old to give birth to her stepson. "My grandfather was a known philanderer, but his mother – with those silver hair and looks – she had to be a demon!"

For the second time Marguerite made the sleek self-willed merchant pale, only now there was disgust in his eyes overshadowing even fright.

"That makes you blood relatives. You wanted to kill your husband to marry your own kin. Who is he to you? A step-brother of your father?"

What did it matter now? Having pressed her legs to her chin, Marguerite voiced the question out and her eyes glowed with dangerous zest. "All this time he has been plotting to become a king behind our back, but it is not too late to destroy all his carefully woven schemes, ostracize him forever from the noble circle and execute his lo…" No, it was too early to reveal the redhead's true relationships to her stepson. "Genesis. Aren't you loyal to the French king?"

Lorenzo scoffed, but no longer attempted to throw her out of the wagon. "My loyalty lies with money. If he pays me…"

"Oh, rest assured, for disclosure of treason you will be rewarded."

"All right, I will take you to the king, but if I find out you lied to me, even your title won't save you this time."

Marguerite nodded, already loosing interest in the conversation, for her thoughts were preoccupied with fleeing as fast as they could. Even merchant's yell, "Gani, turn towards Calais!" didn't sink in completely, again ringing as though from the deep well. But as the wagon creaked, turning, she remembered she left Loki behind, yet there was no regret, only certainly that her loyal reflection would find a way to follow her.

* * *

Genesis was walking down the corridor in a hurry, strides swift and barely controlled not to break into running, and his dark cloak was fluttering around his frame, cloth in its own hurry, as a separate living being. Evening shadows slid by in the empty hallway, footsteps echoing in the dark, each one in time with his heartbeat. His heart, as a fear stricken bird, was painfully throbbing in his chest, and the cold air illumined by faint torchlight burnt his lungs as the familiar carpet runner darted from underneath his feet – as if in its own fright.

The redhead thought only nightmares could be so lucid and realistic, but the more he had time to think of what happened, the less surreal it seemed. He concealed the truth of Sephiroth's father's death, wishing for better, but instead it felt as though he had done something horribly wrong, now stuck in the quagmire he saw no way of freeing himself from.

Marguerite left the castle five hours ago. He told himself he had to watch his lover's stepmother, yet behaved careless still, missing the moment when she vanished as if in thin air. All his inquiries, proved inauspicious, only increased Genesis' worries; after all, Marguerite left without her maiden, dressed in man's clothing and, moreover, she left in the direction of Nevers whereat Lorenzo resided. It could not augur any good. Visions of Marguerite somehow finding out the truth about Sephiroth's intentions to become a king and leaving in a hurry thereat chilled blood in his veins, as the consequences were disastrous.

The understanding he had to tell Sephiroth everything to save whatever was still salvable was no less frightening – Genesis wasn't ready to barge into his lover's room and announce the news he knew all along with nonchalant expression on his face. What will Sephiroth do when he understands everything, including his involvement, even if involuntary, in hiding Marguerite's crimes? And, yet, what will happen to both of them and their so meticulously crafted scheme if he tells of nothing and Marguerite's disappearance goes unnoticed?

The courage was still smouldering faintly in the depths of his soul while his hand was already resolutely opening the door to the viscount's bedchambers.

Sephiroth was working on maps, finishing planning their route from Calais to Avignon, and Genesis felt another scorching prick of despair – it could not be in vain just because in his arrogance he was blind enough to believe he could handle Marguerite on his own.

"Genesis, you are pale as death. Did something happen?" His lover's anxious voice reached his ears, made him gather his dissipated thoughts, but when the silver-haired knight faced him, all resolve thawed under the straightforward gaze of emerald eyes.

Eyes – as arrows.

He took a step towards Sephiroth and buried his face in his lover's flaxen undershirt, trembling in his strong gentle hands and finding strength only to repeat incoherent apologies one after another.

"She left, Sephiroth, I am so sorry; I should have told you earlier. I am so sorry."

Was it his last time in his lover's warm embrace?

"Told me what?" He still did not know, poor Sephiroth, and his voice was so innocently confused. Genesis' fingers desperately snatched at the silken silver tresses, and with splitting heartache he wondered if it was the last time they were so close; if it was the last time he touched the untouchable satin silver.

"She left," he mumbled into the rough flax that hid his lover's immaculate skin, "your stepmother, Marguerite, left for Nevers today. She was dressed for a long journey, and Kathy was not with her, as though… as though she didn't intend to come back."

Genesis felt Sephiroth stiffen in his arms, and his voice – the redhead would prefer damnation to this distant, devoid of anything voice.

"What are you alluding to?"

"I think she knows…" He never felt more miserable in his life. "…Knows of our scheme."

"And you are telling me now…"

"Listen to me!" Fingers seized his lover's shoulders to a point of hurting him as the redhead felt Sephiroth slip from his embrace like a slick cold ice shard. "I didn't know she had any idea about what we were plotting, otherwise I would have told you, but I knew something else I was afraid to speak of hitherto. Remember the first day when we came back, she tried to poison us, therefore I spilled the wine. I felt… I knew… because I understood why…"

"What are you talking about? I don't..."

Genesis closed his eyes tight, and suddenly lifelessly whispered, "She murdered you father, Sephiroth."

For a heartbeat Genesis thought the storm would pass, that Sephiroth would utter a tired sigh and accept the news without a fight, but he understood he was wrong when, pushed aside, faced his lover in anger.

"You knew all along and never told me I had a traitor in my house, which makes… which makes you one with her…"

"I didn't think… I thought you would… I thought it was better not to tell you!"

Sephiroth's lips twitched in a wry, unattractive smirk at his rather pitiful stammering. "So you all betrayed me then. How magnanimous it was of you both, how convenient…"

He swiftly pivoted on his heels, ready to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To save what can still be saved."

"But what of me?"

Sephiroth lingered, hands clenched in fists, and only shoulders were heaving faster, betraying that his coldness was but a mask. Silver flowed around the viscount's chiselled profile, as he slightly turned gifting him with a fleeting glance of icy emerald eyes.

"Do whatever you wish. Stay here, leave, it concerns me not."

"You lie."

There was no answer.

"Just as the sun lights up the earth," Genesis dramatically whispered, fighting overwhelming pain, "so did your smile light my empty soul. So did your voice make my tired heart sing… I only wished for..."

"You betrayed me," harsh, cold, wilfully indifferent, and, yet, the redhead could hear the poignant tumult underneath the superficial nonchalance. Sephiroth's back was rigid, as if forged from pristine refulgent silver, and Genesis' gaze was drawn to it as if with just his fervour he could stop his lover.

"I love you, Sephiroth, and don't you dare walk away from me like that!"

"You betrayed me," he repeated, quieter, but with sudden steel resolve, against which all his excuses shattered, like brittle glass shards.

He was gone then, having left Genesis limply slumping against the wall, face buried in his hands and engagement ring painfully cutting into his cheek. The metal was cold, suddenly lifeless, and even as Genesis knew Sephiroth would forgive him, another thought was no less poignant than the sight of his lover's silver-plated back turned to him.

Everything was swiftly plummeting into darkness.


	33. Chapter XXXII: Illusions and ghosts

**_A/N: _**I got my endless inspiration back, thanks to my constant readers… *grin* not that I lack it, but… you know what I mean.

* * *

_**Chapter XXXII.**_

_**Illusions and ghosts.**_

_"Keep things at arm's length... If you let anything come too near you want to hold on to it. And there is nothing a man can hold on to." (E. M. Remarque, "Three Comrades")._

Stairs were dashing from underneath his feet with swiftness of frightened voles; cold walls were closing their lifeless embraces around the slender frame, and in the darkness silver was scattered as weightless wings behind his back. The thin moon crescent was a crucified martyr in icy winter skies, and its faint light threw his shadow sharply against the wall. Emerald eyes were open wide and somewhere at the inexistent bottom of bottomless wells something stirred, slowly forcing its way through the stone calm as a detestable worm.

_Why did Genesis renege on me? Why? Why? Why…_

Why – a white-hot needle through his heart.

Sephiroth pushed the door open with force that nearly tore it off the hinges. Shadows recoiled from him, fluttering on the walls as if in fright, and convoluted hallways parted to let him pass. The viscount did not stop until familiar walls of the small sepulcher fell around him, choking.

An echo was throbbing is his ears, painful just to think of, for it brought memories of Genesis, pleading Genesis, hurt Genesis, yet – above it all – remiss Genesis.

_Just as the sun lights up the earth, so did your smile light my empty soul…_

Why didn't Genesis tell him anything? Didn't the redhead trust him enough? Didn't he understand how much meaning the campaign held?

Sephiroth nearly fell by his father's coffin, one frightening thought following another in his head already aflame.

Could it be that all his efforts were for naught?

He had to be doing _something_ – writing a letter to the Duke, assembling his troops, or at least trying to stop Marguerite, yet minute after minute he sat by his father's coffin, blindly staring at the lid, engraving sharply curling underneath his numbing fingers.

_Amor fati_. An empty malign mockery it was, as was love and devotion, little candles flickering in nebulous realm called life.

It all started with his stepmother, he thought with endless bitterness, a woman who professed love to him, however, in truth it was not love, but a blind obsession turned pernicious when his stepfather, a man of his own virtues and dignity, appeared to stand between them. Straining his memory, Sephiroth recalled a moment he forgot in utter mayhem of Crecy, a moment of truth like revealing, but biting sun rays among the webs of lies and intrigues. Dying, the Count whispered his stepmother's name, but Sephiroth took it as the last farewell to the woman he did not necessarily love, but at least lived a peaceful life with, which was more than most could hope for.

And among people he cherished most a seed of treason was sowed, and the harvest – lavishly reaped.

He remembered Genesis' words of truth, the greatest weapon of all, and could not disagree that the truth was as an axe – cold, truculent, lifeless.

Long moments slipping by, Sephiroth had no strength to find forgiveness, only keep growing horror at bay within himself as his mind involuntarily was offering bright images of burning Chateau de Thil, beheaded vassals, and a rusty prison door closing behind him and cutting all light – forever. Philippe's retribution would be swift.

Then he wondered if Marguerite knew about the Duke's involvement, and it sent another cold shiver down his spine; trembling fingers reached and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, emerald eyes closed, blind to the world. This swelling worm of fear voraciously devoured his thoughts, leaving him helpless, a state he disliked to find himself in.

Soon, however, his willpower intervened, crystal-clear and steel-like, scattering pusillanimous thoughts and bringing him some of his calmness back. It was hardly a suitable time to give in and lose heart, and unlike on the battlefield of Crecy whereat he felt like a puppet in a hand of unskilled puppeteer, this time everything depended on him and his resilience.

The viscount swiftly rose, feeling new waves surging inside, and the feeling was hope; only dead, he would yield, but until his heart stopped beating and his hand was no longer able to hold a sword, there was this damned feeling of hope with an aftertaste of iron.

Hope, which was brought to him on wings of despair.

Silver back straightened, and Sephiroth gently passed his hand over his hair to smooth it and gather the scattered tresses. His gaze fell onto his stepfather's coffin anew, and words took sharp shapes on the dark lid.

_Amor fati._

Love your fate.

How simple indeed. He will not let anything happen to his plan, and that he shall start by forcing himself to forgive Genesis. His personal feelings meant so little in this struggle, and since he was always able to sacrifice what he wished to what had to be done, Sephiroth knew this time wouldn't be very different. He was brought up in this way, and what he learned as a child was always with him – the burning village, his father raping a peasant girl and a cold understanding that he would achieve nothing by intervening.

A youthful desire to set _everything_ _right_ had died in him a long time ago, for one thing there was for certain. Everything would never be right, leaving hidden circumstances and consequences to the judgment of fate and those who lived afterwards; there would always be those who sang him lauds and those who cursed, those who benefited and those who lost. Those, who supposedly deserved to live, would die, and those who supposedly deserved to die – survive.

Sephiroth resolutely turned to the door of his stepfather's sepulcher, having regained his slipping self-reliance, when there were suddenly torch flames quivering on the wall, and a moment after Alber entered, dragging someone by a collar of his cotardie.

Emerald eyes narrowed when in scarce light the knight saw it was Jean.

* * *

Whether that evening was a nightmare for his master and his lover, Alber didn't know, but he certainly knew it was for him. He was in the kitchen cleaning copper basins Kathy asked to scrub for her, while she was feeding her son, when his brother barged into the premises with his face paler than that of a ghost.

"Forgive me, _mon frère_. I didn't know she'd leave, or that she wasn't on our side. What can I do to earn your pardon?"

He didn't understand at first, looked at his brother with genuine bewilderment, wondering what had come over him.

"I did not get it. You said something to whom and what… Tell me everything."

Mollified by his soft words, Jean vehemently nodded once, twice, his head dangling sideways as if possessing a will of its own.

"I told Marguerite your… our master was going to become a king."

The basin fell out of his hands and with loud copper ding rolled into darkness.

"What… what did you just say, Jean?" No. No, this couldn't be happening, not to him. He was dreaming, Alber told himself, having desperately pinched his own arm; he was having a nightmare and needed to wake up. Now! The youth blinked; nothing changed. The same dark walls surrounded him, fingers were numbing from cold, and there was the same look in his brother's eyes, on his face, a pleading look of a traitor. No! "Tell me you lied, Jean. Tell me you made it up to scare me, to… to…"

He faltered with the lifeless, childish, "I didn't."

Tears were streaming down his brother's cheeks. "Why? Why did you do it?" Small fists spreading dirt all over his face, Jean listlessly, "I didn't know, I thought she was with us."

_God, please, tell me it is a nightmare…_

Conflicting emotions seized his heart with a ruthless hand, ordering him to get up and run to his master, to tell him of his brother's fault, yet the other, deeper part of his mind protested as a frenzied horse, pleading him to hide Jean until everything would be over.

Everything… over… he swore he would never betray Sephiroth…

But, Jean, his little brother he spent his childhood with, played with wooden swords and cried when fell and scratched his knees on the pebbles…

His master…

Jean…

No!

"Get up, Jean," Alber suddenly uttered, and his voice rang as though it didn't belong to him, a voice of an adult hangman.

"Where are you…"

"I am taking you to Sephiroth!"

"No! Don't do it, Alber! Please! I didn't do much… Don't take me to _him_…"

His hand ruthlessly clutched at his brother's; Alber hitched his nearly lifeless form up to his feet and, his pleas notwithstanding, dragged along the hallway. His master was wise; he would know what to do – that was the only soothing thought amid the chaos of many more, not so bland at all.

They found Sephiroth by the exit from the Count's sepulcher. He looked frightening in scarce light, his face – a dark, eyeless mask, and only long silver was glistening faintly, and therefore he recognized his master.

"Master Sephiroth," a bow, curt, painful, as if there was something snapping in his back. "My brother… he told everything to your stepmother about your scheme to become a king." Jean was quiet now, and only pitiful whimpers were heard from behind, telling him his brother was still alive.

For a moment there was only poignant silence, then the viscount spoke, and the deep voice was dark, threateningly calm, unlike what Alber expected it to be. He would have preferred anger. "When?"

There was no answer.

"When did it happen, Jean? My master asked you."

"About five... hours ago..."

There was something close to relief on his master's face, even if in the dark it was hard to tell, and Alber's heart sank. He knew that expression all too well; it appeared on the knight's face when his misgivings were proven wrong, and since they had little to do with Jean's fate, that expression portended no good.

He was right. Sephiroth didn't hesitate to announce the sentence whereupon Jean limply collapsed behind him despite his efforts to support the youth.

"Cut the thumb on his right hand so that he would never hold a sword as a knight." Sephiroth's voice was steel, his eyes – ice.

"But, master, he is just… he is almost innocent, he… " Alber kneeled in front of the silver tower, pleading, wailing, vainly. "He is my brother! In God's name… have mercy…"

What did he expect?

When he lifted his eyes from the ground, the knight's back disappeared. Light steps rustled on the stones, and then – darkness. It even felt like his blood froze in his veins and his heart stopped beating.

He has never seen his master like that.

Alber looked at Jean; the youth's face was ashen from fright and torch flames reflected on it as if in a mirror. Pale lips moved, letting incoherent sounds pass them, then his body curved as snake's and he sprawled across the floor, grabbing Alber's ankles. Jean was screaming now, his dear youthful face distorted in agony hitherto unseen.

"I didn't want to… please… tell him I didn't want to!"

Tears began streaming down his face at the sound of his brother's pleading voice; Alber didn't know whether to hate his master for such harsh punishment or to love him for sparing Jean's life, whether to hate his brother for treason or love him for what he always did.

"Please, Alber, do something!"

He shook his head, barely suppressing sobs, and squatted, passing his hand over his brother's damp cheek.

"I can't, Jean. I can't."

* * *

"Passions of my soul were scattered and wasted in the ashen soil that could bare no fruit."

Genesis leaned against the lancet window of the knight's hall, closed his eyes. The coolness of glass was cold in his veins, reminding of Sephiroth's voice and icy shards of his eyes, their peerless beauty – a curse. A whisper passed his lips and returned in silence, soothingly enveloping and bereaving of any senses, of any pain.

It was midnight, the hour when words were whispered with passion and careless promises made, and in the small castle church bells were ringing twelve times, solemnly and wistfully calling for something, reflecting a longing in his heart.

His longing for Sephiroth.

By now the redhead's poignant despair abated to somewhat melancholic indifference; he apologized for having been careless, and his words – even if not redundant – were all he could offer to his lover. His deed could not be undone, however fervent his wish was, and now it was up to Sephiroth to decide whether to forgive him or not. Perhaps, it would take time. Perhaps, more time than he wished.

Or, perhaps, if Sephiroth asked him to leave, he would leave, for such was his pride, a laughable, pitiful pride of a lone wolf. All he had, all that kept him going from one city to another, searching for revenge, stubbornly fighting for another pale dawn, was that pride.

Genesis wearily opened his eyes, riveted them on the smoldering coals in the fireplace.

In it Sephiroth was a kindred soul, with a different pride of his own, but a pride nonetheless; and their simple human hubris was between them, always.

For those, who – like them – saw the life on its inner, ugly side, who walked on corpses forgetting to count their numbers, everything was survivable, for life itself lost its meaning aside from one most sacred of all – and it wasn't vengeance, or love, or even peace within the soul; it was life itself that bore the only meaning. Everything else was fickle; it came and went, like withered autumn leaves or melting snow, and only a bitter hope to hold onto it still kept him frozen by the hazy window.

Genesis knew if he left now, he would regret he yielded to this momentary whim of pride, maybe, for the rest of his life. Genesis knew if he left now, Sephiroth would hardly ever forgive his second treason.

At times it was like that, empty air filled with illusions of scattered silver tresses, and there was nothing else. A life of ghosts and illusions.

They were lucky, those who _did not understand_, whose mothers were never burnt on the main squares of their villages, who never had to take a single life, who sat in their warm castles, blind to everything but their luxuries and hiding behind faith as their shield. Lucky were those, whose world was small, a room ten steps across and knitting in their sleek hands. Otherwise, what would become of them?

He knew. The enormous world would crush them and paint a scarlet smile across their faces; his world would teach to forget about their knitting and luxurious dresses, to forsake their romantics and naiveté until there would be just bloodied broken fingers clutching at the slippery cliff called life.

Genesis pushed the windowsill aside and laughed with sudden acerbity, but the laughter froze on his lips when he noticed Sephiroth standing behind the threshold, one shoulder leaned against the doorway with same deadly grace that hid in his lover's every movement.

How long had he been standing like that?

His pale angelic face no longer breathed cold anger as only hours ago, and vacant emerald eyes were mirrors reflecting the redhead's image. Genesis would say the knight looked pensive, if not for the barely noticeable stiffness in his pose and sharpness of unbent shoulders.

"Genesis," his name fell into silence between them like a stone. Then Sephiroth moved, slowly nearing the fireplace, his sloth deliberate as a vain attempt to win a couple of precious moments of silence; the redhead knew he would have to start speaking first, as he was the one who came back first. "Have a seat. We have to talk."

No matter how strong his desire was, Genesis could not read any emotions in the deep voice; he at least wanted to be prepared for what his lover was about to tell him.

A rough wooden board cut into his back when the redhead obediently took up on the viscount's offer. The night looked at him with myriad of cold biting eyes, peeped in his soul, leaving an icy caress of fear. Could it be that he, unwillingly, blindly, destroyed his lover not of great hatred – which would be comprehensible at least – but of even greater love?

Could it be that he destroyed them both?

Genesis was afraid to say anything, watching as Sephiroth halted with his back to him, watching silver tresses sway and flutter ever so gently; watching shoulders wearily rise and fall under the light flaxen cloth.

"How long did you know?"

Genesis felt as though he was being questioned by the Inquisition back in his childhood days, sitting on the barren bench by his mentor, Clement, and wishing it would be over soon and he would be back in his cell. Then he denied everything – God, he would deny even his name to survive – but now there was nothing to deny; his juror knew he erred, and a feeling was more akin to anxiety of hearing the grievously anticipated verdict.

"Since the day Marguerite singed herself. I went to Nevers that day to meet Blanche. Remember Blanche?" It was a vain attempt to make the conversation lighter; Sephiroth barely acknowledged his question with a curt nod. "Blanche told me she witnessed Marguerite coming to Lorenzo's house one day in early summer. Then your father… your father died on the battlefield. Of course it could have been a coincidence if not for her posterior words that Lorenzo used to kill irksome lovers and husbands for matrons in Italy. It made too much sense to me, your stepmother wanting to marry you once the Count died… " The chiseled shoulders didn't even flinch; Genesis wanted to ask what hid underneath the cold sharp line of those immaculately shaped shoulders. Such an empty, cheap question. "Forgive me, but you… you are too easy to fall in love with, especially for those who don't think beyond their minute desires and get infatuated by the looks more than they ever would by mind. I would say… I daresay the beauty of your mind overshadows the outward beauty." What was he thinking about? Finding excuses not to talk of his carelessness? Finding a way to express the ineffable? "I thought you had to know… Then… then I confronted your stepmother with intentions to shed light upon my doubts. She confessed to everything, and thereupon I knew I could manipulate her into paying us money we needed. Do you understand now, why you couldn't know?"

"But what happened _after_ you had received the gold?"

Genesis riveted his eyes on his fingers, waves of poignant shame flowing over him. The redhead could not remember petty excuses he made for himself, only now truly realizing what he had been risking. Sephiroth had all the right to be angry, only it hardly made the redhead feel better.

"I… I was afraid you would retract from your scheme…"

This time silence lasted longer, and finally Sephiroth riveted his deadly calm eyes on him, a scintilla of silver among the emerald green. A luscious apple blossom on the endless carpet of succulent spring grass.

Somehow Genesis wanted to sit, just looking at his lover, without hearing sounds that would break the precious silence between them, godlike, sweet silence. No insipid words were worth this priceless silence, when glances told of more than anything else would, and then the old beggar-woman love no longer appeared cheap and threadbare.

The redhead regretted there was a table between them.

"I see. I found a traitor, Genesis, which excludes you. This means you are excused."

He should be rejoicing, but instead there was that same burning emptiness that did not wish to go away. Wherein has he earned such cold retaliation? He wanted to hear warmth in the deep voice and see a faint smile on Sephiroth's face. Genesis sighed, cursing his lover's reticence, reserved nature, at the same time knowing that he would hardly love Sephiroth as much as he did if he was the foreseeable cheerful girl. He had a right to be such, a right earned in dozens of battles, and who was Genesis thinking his lover had to change to his bidding or whims? The redhead loved enigmas, and Sephiroth was the deepest of all.

It made their love a challenge that didn't die with quotidian pettiness.

A scream broke the nocturnal silence, frightened it away as a timid bird, and immediately the castle started waking. Sephiroth shot a curt glance at the window, and paid it no head thereafter.

"What was it?" The redhead finally decided to ask.

"I punished him. It was Jean, Alber's brother." Was the curt answer.

Genesis shivered, wondering what Sephiroth would do if he was found to be the _traitor_, but at least he no longer thought that way.

"I am leaving Chateau de Thil in an hour, and you are certainly more than welcome to follow. Take only what is most necessary, for we would be moving as swiftly as possible, hoping to overtake my… my stepmother. If my calculations are correct, we will be in Calais at the beginning of the second week from now, perhaps, even earlier." He headed for the door, suddenly tired and not hiding it.

"Just like that?" Genesis dared asking, "I… I lo…"

His lover's silver head turned slightly, corners of his thin lips quirked up underneath the silver tresses, but it wasn't a warm smile he waited, and the words died on his tongue.

"It bears little significance. Your actions didn't simply endanger my life, but the fate of the French throne. I want you to understand that."

So much for the immediate forgiveness he craved for, thought Genesis with a touch of bitter irony as, silver swaying from left to right with every step, Sephiroth disappeared in the hallway.

… They left Chateau de Thil an hour later, having swiftly gathered their belongings. They left furtively like thieves without raucous songs of bugles, or banners proudly flying over the skies. They left as if they were leaving to die, not win.

Sephiroth's slender frame loomed somewhere ahead, between men's and equine shadows, a poignantly straight silver arrow defiantly challenging the skies. The infantry and cavalry moved out towards Calais together; because they were forced to do so earlier than expected, two letters were exigently sent to the rest of the viscount's forces and to the Duke, warning of the possible revelation of their scheme. The riders carrying them disappeared long before first hooves touched the drawbridge of the castle.

Sephiroth left all castle matters in the hands of the Benedictine, Marguerite's personal confessor, who eyed both of them rather suspiciously, but there was no better choice. Everything had to be finished in haste, in a slipshod manner, and it - Genesis saw – vexed and angered Sephiroth even more. He lost his temper once, having raised his voice at the slow servant, a trifle he would otherwise hardly pay any attention to.

The night was cold and crystal clear; somewhere tawny owls were hooting, their sinister cries making those most craven shudder and shoot their glances back into the impenetrable for human eye blackness. Horses were snorting, letting clouds of vapor out of their nostrils, and the moon bled silver onto their glossy firs.

Genesis was fighting temptation to fall asleep. His arguments with Sephiroth notwithstanding, the weariness was taking it toll, and he could barely stick on a horse, clutching the saddle with one hand and rein – with another. Everything was so ghostly dreamlike, as though he was already slumbering, away from vacillations and troubles of this world.

Somewhere ahead of him silver was soaring as a halo above his lover's head, another of those illusions that made him look angelic. Only Angels never lived on earth.

Angels either obediently turned their eyes away from it, or fell, ascending to their inhuman freedom.

* * *

Marguerite woke up at night, feeling unfamiliar dizziness. The wagon was still wobbling along the road to Calais, and the journey seemed endless, each hour a reminder that her son was getting closer and closer to her.

She barely had two hours of sleep, then a nightmare cut through her placid dreams, tearing her out of slumber and throwing onto the hard cliffs of reality as a roaring sea would a helpless fish. Lorenzo wasn't sleeping either, sitting in his corner and watching her as if afraid she would do something crazy.

_Cra-zy…_

A foolish grin appeared on her face. No, it couldn't be, for the merchant never feared her; it was just Sephiroth who was the source of fright.

"Do you know why my stepson was always the best?" She suddenly asked the faceless silhouette of the Lombard, and when received no answer, finished. "His true mother was a demon, an ugly snake-like demon with a crimson eye and silver hair." She didn't know where the picture came from, the depth of her imagination or else, but it seemed strangely befitting to the image of her stepson's mother. Marguerite sat up, and shot a careful glance at something in the chink of a narrow window. "What do you think? Can a woman named Jenova be something else?"

The Lombard continued watching her, his expression unchanging; it only changed to disgust when he finally deigned her with a reply.

"I am glad I decided to move days and nights. I'd be rid of you very soon."

"Why aren't you afraid of demons, Lorenzo, demons with silver hair and crimson eyes?"

"Because demons are a stupid fable of a village priest to scare little children."

Marguerite burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter until tears welled up in her once opal, now dull and colorless, eyes.

"You amuse me so much, Lorenzo…"

"And _how_ you amuse me," he echoed with unhidden acerbity, "only God knows."

The large black wagon was crawling through the cold moonlit night. A man and a woman silently sat inside, worst enemies bound with a bloodied bond of a shared crime; neither could sleep.

Neither could wait until the journey would be over.

* * *

_Who were they?_

Sephiroth awoke abruptly, stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling of his marquee, feeling cold creeping up his spine. He groaned under his breath, stretching his numb muscles and with a pale hand pulled the heavy woolen blanket to his chin. Sleeping in the marquee during a cold November night wasn't the same as in summer.

Who were they, the question returned, specks of dust, and weightless sand grains of time? Parts of a Divine Design? Or, perhaps, the design was thought up in a human mind for the sole reason of allaying the pain of being a sand grain? Viscount du Bugey knew that he would rather be a sand grain with an illusion of a free will than an almighty puppet with an invisible puppeteer pulling at the strings behind him. Was it vanity of his pride?

With a sharp sigh that sent a cloud of vapor to the dark ceiling, Sephiroth forced himself to leave the warm bed of bear hides and throw a warm fur-lined cloak over his shoulders.

Was it too much risk, to head immediately towards Calais, whereat both English and French armies awaited them? And, yet, he couldn't fight the French king without having fought the English king first, otherwise even the Duke would turn away from him. Pale, refined fingers clenched the temples, almost feeling flames throbbing behind the skin on their tips.

The maps were scattered on the movable table as he left them yesterday, when, completely enervated, collapsed onto the bed with first rays of dawn in search of a few hours of desired and much needed sleep. A melted candle stood therebeside, its shapeless stem cold and no longer dripping wax.

Time, all he lacked was time, the curse and the blessing of mankind.

Sephiroth crossed the marquee ten steps across in five long strides, whereupon turned back.

He knew he had a chance if both kings didn't join their forces – and they never would; separately, he would destroy them even without a surprise. Divide and conquer – t'was a principle as old as life itself even if Caesar was the first one to speak of it. The reassurance grew stronger and stronger with each hour, only he needed something more to hold onto than his self-reliance. If the French king was to make a mistake…

His mind has fervently grasped at the opportunity, thinking of various possibilities, when he felt his lover's gaze on him.

Having entered silently, Genesis stood by the marquee entrance, azure eyes shamelessly staring at him above the crossed arms. He was silent, as both of them were for the last five or so hours, having barely exchanged a word. Being honest with himself, Sephiroth knew he had no time for his lover, not now. The fate of his whole campaign was in his hands, and the piercing cerulean eyes demanded he thought of their holder, not of the maps and routes, and tactics.

The redhead was still silent when Sephiroth picked up a goose quill and took a seat by the table, only soundlessly changed his position, having settled on the knight's bed. The viscount threw a glimpse at him - at the languishing curves of slender body, at the scattered auburn tresses and sapphires hidden between them – then compelled himself to return his gaze to the maze of cities and roads.

Like that, he worked until the sounds outside let him know the camp has awoken. At least now he had a plan.

Genesis didn't shift during that hour or thereby, remaining a porcelain statue on the dark brown furs. A half-ironic, half-rueful smile was roving on his lush lips, vacant eyes staring at him and yet through him.

"Tell me, Sephiroth, what do you fear most?" His question was sudden. "Defeat? Imprisonment? Death?"

"Neither." The viscount replied curtly. "However, if I lose my ability to think, and my body would still be breathing… that is the worst defeat and the worst death. After that, there is no continuation."

"I thought as much…" Genesis mused, and then sapphires of his eyes snapped open so abruptly he felt a dither run along his spine. "Then promise me that if I go, you will live on."

Sephiroth lingered before an answer, a thought of losing Genesis slowly registering in his mind. It was painful to think of, but foolish not to. They were at war; anything could happen.

He kneeled by the bedside and took his lover's hand into his own. It was cold, but warmed up in mere instants.

"Of course I will, and I expect as much from you. But…" he allowed himself a faint smirk, "don't think of it now. We aren't yet defeated."

"Does it…" Was Genesis trembling? "Does it mean…"

"You are forgiven."

A blissful relief spread across his lover's angelic face, and it filled his heart with sudden warmth, seeing that in such a short time they became so close. Of losing him Sephiroth did not wish to think, driving that treacherous thought to the back of his mind; he would think of it only if it happened. Tormenting himself with endless possibilities wasn't his habit as long as it was in his hands to prevent any of those possibilities from turning real.

"You know," fingers dived into his hair, soft, tender fingers, caressing his cheek, "for a moment I thought you would never forgive me. How foolish it was of me…"

Sephiroth's heart did not jump and gaze did not weaver, "I wouldn't if you were the traitor."

The day was cloudless, and weightless ring of the sun hung on the welkin as if painted with a brush. Having broken the camp, the small army began its march towards the northern port, devouring league after league in almost no time. It seemed men and horses were tireless, inflamed with the same fervor as their leader, whose tall silver silhouette constantly loomed at the head. The knights, their squires, the lancers and swordsmen were inspired by Sephiroth's relentless efforts to cover the distance between the castle and the port as soon as possible, although, few chosen ones aside, none suspected the true reason of the hurry.

Feet and hooves stubbornly hit the frozen ground, weather-beaten faces held up to the lash-like gusts of wind, chapped lips bitten to blood, resolve shining in eyes and reflected in every movement. The army moved like one multi-headed beast, driven by the will and strength of the only one man, and by his will only was it to collapse at the end of the tiresome day. None whined, none complained; the silver-haired viscount chose only the strongest.

Suddenly Sephiroth halted his horse by the place he deemed strangely familiar; it was a hill overlooking what used to be Chatillon just a couple of months before. Now it was a different place, bared from the acrid smoke of fires, houses rebuilt anew, and a tall church towering above the settlement. Of course, then he did not know that the dwelling would survive more centuries to come, but he felt sudden surge of pride for those who never yielded no matter how harsh the circumstances were. Not that he would ever sit down at the table with the peasants as equals, but his pride was different.

The weak had no right to rule over the strong.

With a faint smile he turned to his lover.

"I feel like I have inhaled a breath of invigoratingly fresh air."

"Why?"

Sephiroth turned his gaze to the murrey distance, quiet and thoughtful for a moment, then echoed. "If they didn't give up, we have no excuses either."

Genesis looked deliciously amused, but he decided against explaining anything, urging his horse downhill and hearing his army overtaking them.

He suddenly felt impossibly free, a sand grain – and yet free.

Somewhere above them invisible vermilion banners were flying in the cold wind, ghosts and heralds of a new, bloodier war.


	34. Chapter XXXIII: Steel and blood

_**A/N:** __**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Circumvallation and contravallation_ - construct earthwork lines built by an army that besieges the city, one line facing inwards to guard against sorties from the garrison (lines of _circumvallation_) and one line facing outward to protect the besiegers from enemy forces that might be attempting to break the siege (lines of _contravallation_).

* * *

_**Chapter XXXIII.**_

_**Steel and blood.**_

"_Blood alone moves the wheels of history."__ (Martin Luther)._

Imprints of hooves and footsteps blended on white snow, their thin trail leading from the small encampment to the frozen snake of Somme meandering between barren trees and marshes. A silver-haired knight stood by the black steed, one hand resting on its mane, the other – casually twined around another man's waist, casually and yet with a touch of possessiveness. In the evening glow the dusted with rime ermine fur of the knight's cloak sparkled with iridescent colors.

The tranquil river stretched before them as a living picture of dormant life, life that insatiably waited for awakening to burst in rich colors and intoxicating aromas. It was avid life, untamed life, life that truculently smothered weak sprouts and bloomed in all its perpetual selfishness; it was life that never counted the dead, that struggled for its place under the sun with maddening obstinacy, and knew no concern for defenseless.

This pristine life was blind and invincible.

Behind two frames darkening against the upturned chalice of the vesper welkin a huge army loomed between flickering fires and motley marquees. After Viscount du Bugey left Chateau de Thil and followed the marked route on the map, the ranks of his allies swelled in every place they visited. At some dwellings there would be ten swords joining him, at others – a hundred. Having lost the element of surprise, Sephiroth decided not to hide and wait any more, revealing his intentions at the village squares and city markets – or, rather, let Genesis do it for him as his redheaded lover was a much better speaker. Marguerite would reach the French king faster than him as might the frightened heralds from those villages, but the knight would be armed and ready.

Pensive, Sephiroth carefully studied the river in front of him; in winter it wasn't much of a hindrance unless the ice was thin and horses or artillery – of which he had none – ended up drenched in cold water. This part, however, looked strong enough to hold his cavalry. The infantry would have to cross slightly downstream, as he wasn't willing to risk the condition of his army.

The viscount planned to approach the small but well fortified town of Saint-Omer from south, whence he would be able to send out a reconnaissance party to the enemy's positions, their circumvallation and contravallation lines, and whereto the Duke headed with his forces. The forest nearby would provide him with enough wood to make movable fortresses of their wagon train, and with them he should be able to render the longbows utterly useless. An ambush would finish the rest, having freed the shores of his motherland from the humiliating presence of the Englishmen.

Sephiroth smirked with the corners of his lips, free from his previous doubts and fears; his plan was solid enough to survive many unexpected turns of events, and the web of his scheme – firm enough not to be torn by the revelations. He made sure of that. He didn't spend days after days studying the maps for naught – the routes of escape, the spare tactics in case his initial preparations proved inadequate, the reserves – Sephiroth took care of it all. Finally, yesterday he elaborated a plan of escape if the Duke betrayed him; certainly, his intentions to become a king would have to be forgotten at least for a year or two, but he wasn't about to die in this campaign.

It was now his prowess and intelligence against the shaken reputation of King Philippe.

"You seem to be extremely content with something," Genesis remarked, having noticed the smirk on his lover's lips.

Sephiroth let his hand slide off the redhead's waist, and with his head lifted to the thick gray clouds hanging over them took one step towards the river.

"You are astute as always."

"And what do those words mean, pray tell? Unless you forgot that I possess no skills of mind-reading, 'tis no excuse."

"Humph," Sephiroth's smile grew wider at the slightly taunting notes in his lover's melodic voice. "Sir Jean de Vienne, the military leader at Calais, ordered to send all poor people out of the city once it was besieged by the Englishmen, so that it would hold longer. Edward, despite having ordered to make the catapults, could not breach the city walls and had to resort to plundering the nearby villages to support himself and his army. I would have never thought so many circumstances would favor us."

"Forgive me, but I am not bright enough to follow your thoughts."

"Philippe's army is therebeside, waiting and doing naught to protect the peasants or the citizens of Calais. Even the supplies are provided by two Flemish marines at constant risk of being caught. He is helpless, Genesis, enfeebled by his inadequate decisions and disliked by even the closest of allies." The silver-haired knight folded his arms on his chest, still watching the steel-gray band of the river where it blended with the skies. Life, he suddenly thought, selfish, cruel life and poppies blooming with blood on the fields of Flanders, his Flanders. Scarlet poppies, swinging to the whisper of summer wind, and then placidity of the fields bears kinship to the Promised Land, if such existed. Emerald eyes turned vacant.

Miracles of nature.

"Why did you stop?"

"A king," Sephiroth echoed, but his voice seemed foreign even to himself, "who betrayed his country is the king by that country forsaken."

"That wasn't what you wanted to say." The redhead's fingers delved into the ermine edging of the cloak. "I felt."

"Maybe," he confessed easily, "but sometimes it is best not to know. You will be sleeping calmer."

Poppies, scarlet poppies and a lacerated wound in someone's body, blood dripping on poppies, onto the steel band of his sword; the entrails fell out of the abdomen, but the man was still crawling, his fingers clawing at the crumpled poppies as if trying to catch the slipping life. Bloody poppies… vermilion banners of war… everything repeated itself.

Sephiroth turned and in swift, confident strides headed for the encampment, halting only when a sentry emerged form the darkness and with a bow let him through the makeshift barricade of wagons.

* * *

Sephiroth's head resting on his shoulder, silver hair scattered on the dark furs as sparkling pearls on the wet cliffs near the windless sea – Genesis needed naught more. He leaned closer, knowing his lover wasn't sleeping; breath burnt the immaculate pale skin, sensual words flowed into the knight's ear, and with the first question the redhead felt his lover flinch in his arms.

He liked talking in such hours, since he could feel the silver-haired enigma in his arms and knew it was something he held dear; it was something tangible he could touch. He wished to say forever, but Genesis no longer believed in everlasting matters.

He liked talking because he knew – Sephiroth was listening.

"Tell me, Sephiroth, why did you give me this foolish promise, to be with me until death is to part us? You knew you wouldn't be able to keep it, then why… why giving me the illusion, the hope? You knew I could betray you…"

"There is a difference between betraying _me_ and betraying my _country_." Viscount du Bugey enunciated, and despite his attempts to sound calm behind the seemingly indifferent façade Genesis caught a note of pain. "There is a difference between personal matters and matters whereat thousands of other lives are involved. You have to understand that I cannot endanger the fate of France even for you, to sacrifice what has been done even for the strongest of emotions, for a personal matter on this scale is petty. Everything else I can forgive, but this…" Sephiroth raised himself on his elbow and peered into Genesis' eyes, emerald sinking into azure until the redhead couldn't bear this silent duel any longer, lowered his gaze. "Do not _ever_ ask me to make this choice."

Unfamiliar ire seethed inside him, so unlike jealousy he had felt before, and for a moment the desire to push his lover aside as if he was nobody overwhelmed any other.

"So you would sacrifice me for the place on the French throne… so much for love I could have expected from someone like you…" The redhead understood he was wrong even before he finished talking, but consciously would not eschew saying what was on his mind, as if to render Sephiroth ashamed of his own words, yet instead it was eventually him, who felt shame.

His lover's head fell onto his shoulder anew, long silken hair spread over his bare chest, shimmering silver in dying candle light. Sephiroth looked so tired, so old, as if the whole world suddenly fell to rest on his shoulders.

"Even after we lived together for so long, after we've been through so much, you still believe my sole objective is to claim the French throne. So be it. I have done more than enough to persuade you otherwise; words I say now won't change a whit." Genesis felt heat surge to his cheeks, raised his hands to cover burning skin – as often, he would fling harsh words in his lover's face and then regret, and then had to rectify his inadvertence… However, this time Sephiroth saved him, having continued. "Despite my kinship to the French throne, I never considered myself a king until I understood that France needed a better ruler to end this foolish dynasty dispute once and for all. I am not a savior of France – the kingdom will, most likely, survive even without my interference as it did ere I was born. Mine is the only hope to lead my country to the new, better future."

Genesis sighed, removing his hands away from his face; hiding from himself or from his lover never helped. He simply had to accept this realization – Sephiroth would never belong to him and solely him, accept and appreciate what the silver-haired knight was lavishly willing to share.

And to think that it took him months to realize something so simple…

"'Tis too honest, what you say, darling. If I didn't love you as much as I do, I would have probably wanted to hear a pleasant lie…"

"Why? I have no…"

A gentle smile flitted across Genesis' face; Sephiroth – if he wanted – could be so blind. "Life is an illusion we create. At times I want it to be a pleasant illusion… at times I want to forget about the truth. But you," fingers blandly slid along the line of chiseled shoulders, "you were never afraid of truth, weren't you? You didn't need to lie to yourself as I did. You had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be absolved from, and this is your strength, strength that is hard not to envy." That's all that there was to it, he thought, and he finally said it; suddenly Genesis felt tired and drained. Azure eyes closed, having left him one on one with inner darkness. "Even if you lose, you won't ask forgiveness; you will die, but never utter a single plea, go as if you never existed. Die undefeated, for it is your life they can shatter, but not your will. It is your existence fate has the power over, yet over your spirit it is powerless. Verily, either Caesar, or nothing…"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," Genesis straightened and somewhat awkwardly nestled to his lover's body, as if ashamed of stealing its warmth, "don't listen to me today. I am worried, even if I don't say it so often. I want to see you win, but…" seeing that Sephiroth wanted to interrupt him, the redhead sealed his lover's lips with a passionate kiss, "don't promise anything, please. Promises are so illusory… once you promised me to win the battle of Crecy…"

"It is different, now I…"

"Still, don't say a word. I know what you wish to say, and I don't want to hear it. Veracity is rarely consoling, truth rarely brings happiness. Epiphany demands a sacrifice… Do you think if their God is taken from them, the commoners will be happy? Hardly." Genesis dropped a dark sliver onto the bedding whence his lover gently picked it up. "But if you want it, the truth…Do you know the difference between us?" He felt Sephiroth's heart skip a beat underneath his palm, and gently smirked into those thin lips he was never tired of kissing. "Between the fate of France and you… I would have selfishly chosen you."

* * *

The French encampment two leagues from Calais was a despondent sight with drooping flags and threadbare from abundant rain marquees. In the mornings akin to this, the rime-covered ground was dotted with ashen remains of old fires – black spots blindly staring at the skies. A clumsy, sleepy sentinel jumped up at the sound of the rumbling when the brown covered wagon approached the slipshod defenses.

"Oi, who's coming?" Rang an unusually loud hail.

The coachman stopped the horses, and a thin withered hand of a woman appeared from behind the black draperies.

"We are here to see His Majesty on a very urgent matter. I am Marguerite, Countess of Nevers and Flanders, and this is my companion Lorenzo."

"Milady! What brings you to these parts?"

"This is for the King's ears only," she replied with hubris, and the sentry straightened, hastily trying to put his padded armor in order.

"His Majesty is sleeping…"

"This is a matter of national importance."

The sentry with unwashed bearded face blinked at the noble lady with befuddlement. Words were registering in his clouded head slowly – most likely, he wasn't sober after a lavishly thrown party, the only reason that still kept him by Philippe's side.

"If milady insists…" the mumble drowned in a swish of a lash as it flitted in the air in front of the sentry's eyes; the coachman took measures, seeing how his master's companion was treated with disrespect.

"Out of the way, brute!"

The man only looked at the coachman and shook his head.

The King's marquee was slightly more luxurious than others, but the long, unavailing standing by the walls of Calais left its mark here as well. Empty bottles and sodden clothes were scattered near the greasy bedding of bear and boar hides, whereat Philippe himself sat, half-naked, and a barber was slowly cleaning his feet. A small censer was emitting fumes at the furthest corner, their pleasant scents unable to damp the smell of stale wine. Marguerite bowed, twitching her nose from unpleasantness of it – her stepson never allowed such disorder.

Bloodshot eyes stared at her from the clean-shaven face, and Philippe frowned from the effort to remember who she was.

"Oh, I'd be damned, if it isn't Marguerite herself! Welcome, my dearest cousin, and pray tell me what brought thee herein."

She shot a wary glance at Lorenzo, then at the barber and at the entrance, eyes lingering on the fluttering cloth, as if expecting Sephiroth to enter any minute with his sword bared for the deadly blow.

Lorenzo availed himself on the opportunity to speak in the pause. "Forgive me ,Your Majesty, I tried to stop this foolish woman, but she wouldn't listen and even threaten with harsh punishment…"

Philippe silently gestured for the barber to leave them and addressed the merchant with a clearly dissatisfied frown.

"And who would you be?"

"Lorenzo, Your Majesty," a deep, servile bow followed, "a humble Lombard at your service…"

"Your Majesty, please, hear me out… my stepson is…"

"Silence, woman," Philippe rose and wrapped himself tighter into the blue with yellow lilies ermine cloak. His face lit up with familiar avarice at the mention of Lorenzo's affinity to the famous family of the Lombard merchants. He would not listen to her, the Countess thought with sudden rancor; he sensed an easy gain that could fill the chests of the depleted French treasury. Bastard! All of them! "What said you, my dear friend?"

Oh, how they changed, the nobles, once money was mentioned!

"Your Majesty," and Lorenzo was more than eager to play up to his King, "this woman claims her stepson is plotting to force you to abdicate the French throne."

"By which right?"

For a split instant Marguerite watched Philippe's face pale, and hope, however wan, returned as she cried out.

"He is the bastard child of Philip the Handsome!"

The French king froze for a moment, yet his bewilderment was short. "What proof does she have? All royal sons, even the illegitimate, received proof of their birth, signs that separated their bloodline from any other. Do you have them with you?"

Marguerite's heart sunk; she _knew_ Sephiroth was plotting against the French crown, but there was no evidence, for she forgot all about it. Her gaze fervently slid from the merchant's sleek face to austere eyes of the French king as if seeking support.

"There is no proof, Your Majesty," Lorenzo triumphantly announced with a simper, and she knew she lost. She had no proof, her unwavering conviction aside.

"But, Your Majesty, Sephiroth is…"

"Sephiroth, Sephiroth, I've heard enough of him today! I can hardly remember your stepson, not to mention my current troubles with the insolent Englishmen…" A sly grin flitted across Philippe's face. "Inter alia, my dear friend, there is something you can help the French crown with, which certainly will not go unnoticed…"

"I am your loyal servant, Your Majesty."

Bastards, dirty bastards! Marguerite clenched her fists, eyes spitting flames of spite; how dare they defy God's will? Theirs was a role of weapons in her stepson's holy punishment.

"But…"

Philippe deigned to gift her with an angry glance. "As for you… you cannot be causing any harm, spreading ill news in my camp. Charles!" A barber appeared at once. "Take care of our guest here, and make sure she does not escape."

Marguerite uttered a foolish giggle; this could not be happening to her, it was too unfair. A rather rude shove rendered her speechless from ire.

Despair followed much later, in solitude.

* * *

The army was on the march anew. Sephiroth, his master, drove them to the north as if possessed by a demon, nights and days through the snow and fog, and lashing gusts of wind. Alber understood the urgency and bore the hardships silently, allowing himself only a few hours of rest during the day between duties he had to attend to as his master's squire and care his brother required.

He decided to take Jean with them, unable to leave the boy at the castle whereat he would have, likely, died. He wasn't better off at the march, but at least Alber was with him; at least Alber cared about what happened to the little boy, whom no one besides him needed.

Jean's face was sallow in wan sunlight as he lay on the dirty hay; a weary horse too old for battle dragged the wagon, and it dangerously creaked and wobbled each time they traveled on the rutted - as though covered with battle scars – roads.

Wrapped in thick blankets, Jean suffered from both cold and fever; the castle barber gave him very few chances to survive, for it was the fright and pain that sapped his strength more than the wound itself. Alber was afraid to bring this matter to his master's attention, uncertain whether Sephiroth bothered to think about giving Jean forgiveness.

Those were the bleakest days of Alber's life, days when faith and hope were slowly dying among the whiteness of cruel winter emptiness – withered branches, drooping leafless trees, icicles ringing on the board of the wagon; and above them stretched pale indifferent skies embracing him in their unfathomable vast.

On the second day the young squire noticed a stooping short shadow by their fire. It was Loki, who attached himself to his master's army no one knew when. At first Alber was determined to send the ugly peasant away, but the latter meant no harm; moreover, when he was away on the daily duties, Loki took care of Jean, brought him food, hot water, fresh bandages. Whence the peasant procured these necessities, tired Alber never asked, soon having imbued with something close to shattered gratitude. There was this strange gleam in dark hollow eyes every time the lout's gaze fell onto Jean, yet other than that he proved to be utterly innocuous. Remembering Jean's lesson, Alber immediately reported the incident to his master, but Sephiroth was so preoccupied with campaign matters that the young squire wasn't certain he heard or understood the words.

It was long ago that Alber forgave both Sephiroth and Jean; it was his brother's survival that was his only goal now.

The young squire shivered, having thrown more firewood into the fluttering flames, and shifted his eyes to his brother, who lay lifelessly sprawled on the hay bedding. Loki was dawdling with hot porridge, feeding Jean, and he obeyed yet without any desire. It seemed his brother gave up hope as well, and looking at the once jolly youth imbued him with almost unbearable sorrow. Then he wept, furtively, and yet Loki always noticed, giving him a piercing glance from underneath the bushy eyebrows.

"Little master shouldn't cry. Loki likes lads; he knows how to heal them. Your brother will be healthy and merry again. Me never would."

"How do you know how to find remedies?" He would then ask just to ask something.

"Me worked for a barber once, when me was young. An alchemist he was, Loki knew. The men in hoods burnt him for heresy," Loki giggled, "like mother of the silver master's friend."

"How do you know about Genesis?"

"Eyes of a falcon me have, ears of a vixen. Loki knows everything. He even knows the good mistress tried to kill master's friend. Loki was sent for poison."

Alber gazed at the little man with disbelief. Did Sephiroth know that Marguerite try to poison Genesis? If not, he has to know…

"Wait here, I will be back shortly… and look after Jean!"

All previous cheerlessness gone, Alber leapt up to his feet and dashed out of the small field marquee. The cold air of the winter night burnt his lungs as he ran as fast as he could towards his master's dwelling, which was glowing like a bright jewel in the middle of the encampment. He noticed he forgot his cloak only when, panting, threw off the cloth shielding the entrance.

It was quiet in the room, and in wan candle light the bedding of furs and hides could not be seen, hidden in shadows and concealed by them as with a cloak. The chair was empty, the table – covered with maps and books; his gaze travelled further, having finally discerned two bodies, entwined in each other's arms, two silhouettes as one, motionless. He could not tell where Sephiroth was, or where Genesis was, not even a streak of silver visible wherefrom he stood.

"Messire," he fell onto one knee, eyes staring at the floor and scorching heat creeping up his cheeks. Seeing lovers alone was still as unwonted as the first time one early autumn day. "I… I…"

He pitifully mumbled something, hating himself for the stammering, for the shyness, however, unable to resist a burning desire to flee.

Sephiroth raised himself on the elbow, bare shoulders gaining clear contours as though emerging from the fluttering veil of darkness.

"Alber?" The deep voice was sleepy, husky, and Alber's head reeled – either from the sound of it, or from the luscious scent wafted to him from the censer.

"Who is it, darling?" Mumbled Genesis; now the youth saw the redhead as well.

"My squire."

"What does he want?"

"I… I found out your mother wanted to poison Genesis, and I thought you should know…"

A chuckle rang from the bedding, amused almost, "I know, Alber. Now go back to your marquee."

His master's answer heaved a load off Alber's heart; Sephiroth knew, and – undoubtedly – took care of this threat. Admiration of his master's perspicacity filled him with sudden warmth and deep assurance that now everything would go as planned.

"I am sorry…"

"Don't apologize, little one," Genesis anew. Alber hastily nodded, rising to his feet carefully, so that his eyes would not see the lovers. "Go and rest."

The young squire came to his senses only when the cold wind disheveled his hair; there always was this unfathomable sense of otherworldliness each time Alber saw his master and his lover together. Shaking his head, he wrapped himself tighter into the shirt and lifted his gaze to the cold stars.

The youth returned to his marquee thereafter, nestled up to his brother and cried himself to sleep. The slew of questions swarmed in his mind, but Alber obstinately rejected every single one. This is how everything was meant to be.

_Meant to be._

_

* * *

_

They reached Saint-Omer at midday of one cloudless November day. Formerly an unobtrusive Benedictine Abbey, it now grew into a large city with defensive walls surrounding the citadel the Abbey eventually became; the roof of the bell tower vulturously glistened above the closed gates, and another serpentine of a frozen river showed gray by the town's walls.

It wasn't for naught that Sephiroth chose this fortified city for their meeting place with the Duke. From the hill whereat the knight alighted to observe the scenery, the city looked inimical and redoubtable, bare in the realm of white, gray, and black.

Behind the river Englishmen amassed, a raiding party of three dozens of horsemen that expected a routine pillaging, and Sephiroth intended to make certain their delusion lingered unchanged for as long as possible. Even if he forfeited the element of surprise attack at the French army, Edward still remained unaware of his schemes.

Thoughtful emerald eyes narrowed, calculating, silver head fell onto the armored chest while the right hand slowly rose, as though tired, and his squire immediately appeared behind his steed.

"Signal an advance, Alber. Assemble two dozens of the knights from the right flank and give them my orders."

"Yes, messire."

Sephiroth looked at the youth before he hurried to obey his command, noticing the pallor and fatigue too evident not to notice; he saw it in his other allies, as the hardships of their journey were taking their toll and only himself felt none of it, as if he was made of steel. The truth was simple – it was his resolve that pushed him onward, relentless desire to see his goal finally achieved, and it gave nearly inhuman strength. Unfortunately, it gave strength to him only, leaving others as they were – tired warriors. Some tried to repine against hardships, yet he was able to silence those with lavish promises of loot.

_Loot…_

The left corner of a perfect lip twitched, and Genesis – to no surprise – felt the change in his mood at once.

"Correct me if I am wrong, but this is Saint-Omer, our last stop before Calais."

"You are rarely wrong, Genesis," then he changed the teasing tone, "this is indeed a meeting place with the Duke, but first I would have to take care of these Englishmen."

The redhead chuckled under his breath, "When you speak this way, it augurs no good. Poor, poor Englishmen. If I were their commander, I would trade places with the most despicable beggar."

Sephiroth returned the smile and, having noticed his cavalry gathering, pulled down his visor with a faint clang, whereupon his voice rang muffled. "Stay with the rest of the army until I am back."

"Humph, as if I am going anywhere."

His lover's last words drowned in staccato clatter of horses' hoof against the frozen ground when he turned the steed towards his vassals.

As he approached, the air was torn by a shrill sound of a bugle; freed from the cover, unfolded the indigo banner, throwing a golden cascade of letters towards the wan rays of late autumn sun. The embroidery flared up as if alive, proudly fluttered in gusts of wind, spilled in myriads light goldish sparks.

_Veritas vos liberabit. _

Sephiroth took his place on the tip of the wedge he usually preferred to any formation, for it was optimal for breaking the enemy's first line, and once the opposing forces were separated, chaos and panic usually finished the rest. This time, however, he changed the routine, having divided his detachment into two wedges, a dozen riders in each.

He was about to signal an advance when Alber suddenly alighted before him, swiftly removed the helmet to speak. His face was serious – he didn't look as dispirited even before the devastating battle at Crecy.

"If I die, messire, please… take care of Jean."

The viscount curtly nodded, thoughts elsewhere; his arm shot up to the halcyon skies, and the horsemen poured downhill as a turbid stream of variegated cloaks and plumages.

On the plain by the river Aa the cavalry swiftly came apart in two parallel steel rays; hooves hit against the frozen ground, aloft dashed defiant resonant neigh, having frightened a flock of birds from barren branches. Astray, a single ray of sun found them, fluttered on the armor, flared up between steel breastplates, caressed the leader's silver lock that showed from underneath the helmet, and finally disappeared in the cerulean expanse. The cavalry passed the sinuous riverbed, whereupon the Englishmen noticed the threat.

Cacophonic sounds of the enemy's bugles hastily called for battle, the formation regrouped, horsemen bunched in an attempt to react to the sudden attack from two sides. Sephiroth half-rose in the stirrups, the huge bastard sword flew out of the sheath, described a refulgent arc, and, following his orders, his cavalry closed the ranks, having cut into the enemy's lines as a sharp brand into flesh.

Horses screamed as human beings when steel crashed with steel, rows crushed with rows, and the jaws of the Frenchmen's detachment clamped around the prey. Swords flew up and fell, painted scarlet, first bodies dotted the placidity of the winter landscape, equine croups crumpled among the bloodied horse cloth and armor. Sephiroth's plan to intercept the enemy's retreat worked, and slowly but surely the Frenchmen pressed the plunderer's to the frozen river.

Sephiroth's opponent was the Englishmen's leader, a tall haughty horseman in shining armor with hidden behind the pot helmet face. He swung an axe at him with skill of a battle hardened warrior, but the viscount parried it with no less ease. The leader bared a small misericord, attempting to surprise him, but the viscount simply took the blow with his arm shield, whereas his flamboyant sword pounced upon the axe with more strength. The leader grunted, yielding; with his free hand Sephiroth guided his steed forward until the axes' blade touched the shoulder strap and pressed from the side. The axe cut into the joint, and a thin trickle of blood flowed down the shining steel. The leader made an inhuman effort to flee from the trap; freed, the flamboyant curve fell athwart, having found a weakness anew, and the head flew off the shoulders, rolled on the ground whereupon the body joined it with a clang. Blood spattered across the visor, and the Englishman was no more.

After leader's death the battle lasted but instants. Three Englishmen surrendered, the rest were slaughtered and hastily buried near the river.

Sephiroth alighted, lifted the visor; blood that was streaming down his blade he hastily wiped on the ground and threw the sword into the scabbard.

"Rather impressive, the way you dealt with the Englishmen," a familiar taunting remark rang from behind his shoulder. Genesis dismounted by his side, azure eyes sparkling with both anxiety and pride; there was something else hiding in those ever so enigmatic depths he still found no bottom to and, likely, never will. But that had to wait.

"I began realizing it only recently. There is a difference between how a king and a noble look at their country, just as there is a difference between how a man and a king understand this world. To me it makes no nevermind how many Englishmen die in this war, or how many of Philippe's allies. It matters not how much blood would be spilled in Avignon."

"You do sound slightly different; when we met, you hadn't had as much resolve…"

"Humph, I am no saint, Genesis. Wars know no piety."

"Messire! Messire!" A panting messenger ran up to him. "The city is ready to open the gates for you and your army. You arrived on time, thank God, or they would have taken more crops and cloth, leaving us with barely enough food to feed the women and the children."

Sephiroth folded his arms on his chest, thoughtfully watching as Alber was meticulously folding the indigo banner into the cover it was carefully wrapped heretofore. It was a symbolic day for him, when his banner had first seen the battle, tasted wind and blood, and victory.

"Tell the bishop I would be most pleased to meet him, and these…" he casually waved his hand at the prisoners. "Build the gibbet and hang the Englishmen outside the city so that the scavengers would not be invading the town and putrid odor would not disturb the citizens."

"But, messire, we can get a ransom…"

Ransom, money… this war wasn't about gold, and that should be made as lucid as possible. Emerald eyes narrowed, cold slits between black lashes, and the messenger lowered his gaze first.

"The invaders should be hung as a warning to others. Shores of France would not be plundered without harsh consequences."

Sephiroth touched Genesis' shoulder to show he was not going to waste more time with the trifling matter as the execution of three Englishmen, and both lovers headed back to the main forces.

Bugles merrily signaled again, and in revelry the viscount's army headed to the opened city gates.

Sephiroth, the illegitimate heir to the French throne, was marching into the town of Saint-Omer and inexorably – towards his fate.


	35. Chapter XXXIV: Valor and slyness, part I

**_A/N: _**For this chapter I had a wonderful beta, AlexJ69, so my special thanks to her for finding little things I myself am not able to find. XD

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc. **_

_Velle est posse (lat.) – _Where there is a will, there is a way.

* * *

_**Chapter XXXIV.**_

_**Valor and slyness.**_

_**Part I.**_

"_Vivere militare est". ('To live is to fight', Seneca)._

Steps were rustling on the granite floor, nearing, clear, confident – Genesis could recognize them with closed eyes, those steps that belonged to his lover. A wave of familiar excitement rose in his chest, dither ran through his body, and he froze with his back to the door, counting those faint steps, which grew louder with each heartbeat.

It was like counting back time itself – and then the door creaked, opening, and steps drowned even the sounds of his own breath, yet Genesis didn't turn or show any signs that he heard his lover approaching until he was wrapped in warm arms and pressed to the broad chest. Then steps faded in blissful silence, and he whispered.

"I am glad you were able to come."

Sephiroth shamelessly undid first few buttons of his cotardie, clung to his warm skin – thin slender fingers stealing the very heat of his heart.

"There is hardly anything more important than you, so why would I spend this short evening away?"

"I don't know... catering to the Duke, perhaps, or…" the redhead awkwardly shrugged his shoulders, trapped between his lover's arms and chest. "Why would I know what you might prefer to the company of such modest persona as myself, my silver king?"

He was already laughing, inhaling rich scent of silver hair he did not see, only felt falling behind the collar of his undershirt as his head rested on his lover's shoulder.

Sephiroth didn't find his words as entertaining.

"I cater to no one," the velvety voice was low, stern, daring, "and the Duke is no exception. He accepted my new battle plan, but he never really had a choice."

Darkness behind the guarded window of the Abbey in Saint-Omer swirled in variegated colors as he was gently lowered onto the wide bed – first one in more than a week of constant march. Genesis closed his eyes, unwilling to comment on his lover's reproach, feeling lightness and warmth spread about his body.

"Why is your squire so scared of us?" He lazily murmured while Sephiroth continued to undo the buttons in the same unhurried manner. Freed from extra clothing, he slightly shivered when the knight's palm slipped inside his flaxen undershirt, fingers gently tracing the first line along the muscles on his abdomen. Genesis relaxed, arching into the caress that slowly moved along his chest, passing his most sensitive spots, as though teasing, and ignoring his frustrated sigh.

"He is young and has been raised in the fold of the Church, faithful and unquestioning. Do you think it is easy for him to accept seeing me defying the laws of the said Church?"

"It's been three months, Seph. He acts as though he had seen us for the first time… I think your explanation is lacking something."

"Humph, then ask him," his lover's hand was moving downwards again, and with bated breath the redhead yielded to its touch as it slipped between his fingers.

Steps, touch, voice, all were familiar, like a flicker of the world between half-closed eyelids; his small world, which narrowed down to himself and his lover, alone, anywhere. Genesis smirked; deep down in his heart he was an escapist, after all.

"Maybe, I should."

The game wasn't a game any more when curious touches reached between his legs, sending a short wave of pleasurable excitement whereat warm flesh caressed flesh, and the redhead felt like an obedient toy in his lover's adroit hands. Azure eyes opened, sinking in bright intangible depths of pristine emerald waters, a soft moan swallowed by thin lips sealing his, tongue plunging deep into his mouth. His leg slowly moved along Sephiroth's graceful hip-line, his body responding to every demanding stroke of that persistent, obstinate hand. Genesis impatiently freed himself from the rest of the slough, striking an alluring pose on the white sheets, knowing that was how his lover wanted him most.

Sephiroth gently parted his knees, bent over him in the waterfall of silver; lips fluttered on his skin, soft and searching, sending waves of heat through his abdomen and strained muscles.

Genesis licked his suddenly dry lips, hips involuntarily buckled towards his lover's; his fingers covered Sephiroth's palm, clenching it, unnaturally smooth and soft despite long hours spent training with a sword. The knight's body arched into his, hips following in the same even rhythm, cloth rubbing against his sensitive flesh, and its roughness – another sensual excitement their unity begot. The redhead unclasped his lover's outerwear, hastily removed it from chiseled shoulders. Lips avidly covered lips anew, kisses sharp and deep instead of tender, yet giving voluptuous pleasure, when, vying with each other in forceful insistence, reached the very essence. Sephiroth kissed him until his lips, swollen and slightly bruised, burnt; until all Genesis could utter into his lover's mouth was a weak moan, feeling his abdomen became a pool of spreading pulsating heat.

His chest no longer heaved steadily; through husky and quick breath broke frequent faint pleas of sheer delight when Sephiroth's mouth mantled his hardened nipple, enveloping warmth on throbbing nerves, and his shoulders were arching towards it, asking for more. Liquid silver, cool on his skin, flowed between their bodies.

Genesis trapped Sephiroth's slender thighs between his legs; fingers found the graceful crook of his neck, with tender strokes encouraging his lover's demanding caress to his already overly sensitive nipples.

When he thought he could no longer bear it, Genesis impetuously reached for the laces on his lover's pants, impatience fueled by unassuaged desire, more acute when cloth fell, revealing familiar curves of undeniable grace, a sight able to arouse him with its candid, shameless nakedness only. Tempted to touch, impassioned, the redhead gently passed his hand over the chiseled muscles of sculptured abdomen, over the strained flesh, whereupon Sephiroth threw Genesis' legs over his shoulders with a jerk and took him as he was, aroused, unprepared.

Genesis' head fell onto the soft pillow as he accepted his lover's pace, unable to restrain curt moans that passed his lips through heavy breath. Through scattered silver tresses, a thin angelic face gazed at him, torn with ecstasy, lips half-opened in an expression that reminded Genesis of a faint, placid smile.

Genesis wanted him to smile always.

Yet, he knew the delusion would disappear, palms would slip off his hips, emerald eyes would close, and that same person, who loved and enraptured him now, would give out orders, and people would bleed and die with a wave of his hand. Sephiroth wouldn't be smiling any more, and of tender words spoken in darkness, of gentle caresses, and passionate love, only this refined angelic visage would remain, and death.

The rhythmic movements fomented sharp pleasure, each deep thrust of his lover's hips reached his core, and then they were wasted almost simultaneously. Genesis tumbled from the peak with a cry; a shudder with a sharp breath betrayed Sephiroth's completion.

The redhead freed his legs from his lover's grip, lowered the latter's body onto the sheets, and slipped therebeside to find silver-green eyes with cat-like vertical pupils looking at him through softly glistening tresses. Even those eyes were different now, tender, calm, and the redhead felt – if he peered into them for too long, his head would reel, as from besotting smell of the censer.

"I have to go soon, Genesis," Sephiroth's whisper was slightly weary, regretful, yet resolve didn't disappear from his voice.

"Why?"

"I have to make sure that the carpenters are not falling behind schedule. It is important, for I will need strong defenses against Edward's archers."

"Do you mean, more important than me?" He teased. Sephiroth didn't understand.

"Why do you keep asking about my priorities? I thought I explained…"

"Seph," Genesis interrupted his lover with a deep sigh. "I wasn't serious. I really wasn't."

The viscount amused him with a crease on his high, usually flawless forehead.

"Who knows when you are being serious and when you aren't. I thought I knew you long enough, but you continue to surprise me all the time."

The redhead's lips stretched into a smirk, "Roger Bacon introduced the theory of signs, yet signs are meaningless without our ability to interpret them. However, I am the most meaningless of all signs, for it is hard to seek reason within passion. Isn't it why I am still so alluring to you?"

Sephiroth sighed and slowly freed himself from his embrace; Genesis sat up to watch his lover clothe himself, and silence reigned over both of them until the knight quietly spoke.

"Velle est posse…" Fingers stopped half way in buttoning the cotardie, and thoughtful emerald eyes fell on his face, vacant. "I will, I take. I lived, firmly believing in it, but then it was suddenly different with you. Women used to offer themselves to me willingly; some I refused, others kept, but hardly of any deep emotions, rather, out of courtesy to their titles. There was one a long time ago, whom I desired, but I lost my interest when I understood she was after my title and fame. But with you – even if I will you to stay – you won't unless you wish the same. You are… something else, a commoner with pride, a man from the very bottom I used to despise and I still do. Why you are different, I, perhaps, will never understand." Sephiroth rose and threw a warm cloak over his shoulders. "You dared to dream when I forgot how, and whereas you once said I had wings, it is because of your passion that I flew up."

"Then we have to agree that we taught each other something we didn't know heretofore."

His lover nodded, "We did."

Genesis watched him open the door, and darkness swallowed his slender silhouette soon thereafter. Steps were rustling on the granite floor again, only moving away, fading, stealing last sounds together with reminiscent warmth, and then – silence. Coldness.

_Velle est posse. _

_Velle… est posse…_

_

* * *

_

Mire splashed under the hooves as hundreds of horses moved through dirty torpid streets of Saint-Omer, lit with faint morning sun and ghostly in unusually thick fog. Vociferous bustle swept over the squares and rows of houses, rushed into narrow alleys as a turbid wave, tearing the city out of slumber. Urchins and messengers were running through mist, beggars jostling around the crowd of horsemen in the colors of the Duke of Burgundy, and at this turmoil curious citizens peeped through the windows. The French army was leaving Saint-Omer, and in the rippling sea of human and equine corpses only two men remained calm as bearing pillars.

They were the Duke himself and Alber's master.

Having shot a short glance at the tall, masterful silhouette encased in full-plate armor and notable in the throng for the long wave of silver hair, the youth elbowed his way through the medley of pages and squires to the place where Jean was brought last night after the military council with the Duke was held at the bishop's quarters. The council, whereof only rumors were afloat, was clandestine, and all Alber heard was that they were exigently moving towards Calais and Edward's regiments.

It was a privilege of the few to know more, and he wasn't among the chosen ones.

Having run upstairs, Alber opened the door to the scarcely alight room and tried to take his brother's bedding into the street, yet it was too heavy with Jean's lifeless body sprawled on it, and he soon understood he would fail. Loki was lost in this turmoil, and he had no time to search for the strange peasant. In despair the young squire clutched his head, knowing that Sephiroth and his army wouldn't wait for him, when heard steps approaching.

"Do you need help, little one?"

Alber almost jumped at the sound of that deep melodic voice he could not forget even if tried; it was carved into his memory, a sensual, almost seductive tone only the devil would speak in. Devil's spawn he was, after all, and Alber could only silently agree with the person, who was the first to ascribe demonic abilities to his master's lover. For certain, the youth knew Genesis looked and spoke like a devil.

"Y-yes, I would welcome it, sire."

Genesis circled the bedding Jean's brother lay prone on, azure eyes fixed on the streak of light seeping through dust floating in the air.

"Is he your brother?" There was unexpected sympathy in the question; it was hard to tell whether Genesis was being genuine, or it was another veneer of his charm.

"He is, sire. And I failed him."

Without him noticing, tears welled up in his eyes, for Alber knew his brother's life was on the wane, and only a miracle could help them.

"Why?"

"I should have known he was involved with her, but instead… instead I let him betray us. Why? Why couldn't I save my brother from this mistake?"

The redhead's face became distant as he turned towards the window, now only a flash of auburn hair visible through shadows. He spoke quietly and as if Alber wasn't in the room, addressing a vacuous space.

"At first he believed it was I, who betrayed him. And now I fear to think – what if I did? What would he do? How much was my…" Then the redhead faltered, noticing Alber, who silently stood by his brother's bed, as though for the first time. "The fates are cruel, aren't they?"

Alber uncomfortably shifted from foot to foot, watching his master's lover with a bewildered expression of a lost child.

"What are you talking about, sire?"

For a moment Alber was certain Genesis was going to say something other than a curt, "Nothing, Alber." For a moment the young squire believed his master's lover came here to share his fears with him, with a boy, who was almost a stranger, but the feeling only lasted for an instant. "You are loyal to him, are you not?"

"Of course, sire."

"Then you have to promise me something. Tomorrow, on the battlefield, if he falls, bring him alive to me. Forget about his need for that victory or whatever he asks of you; if he is wounded, make sure he leaves the battlefield. Do you…" Suddenly azure eyes flared up brightly, and Genesis' voice dropped to low, spiteful. "I don't even know why I am asking anything of you! You won't understand! Your loyalty is your blindness."

The youth felt helpless. "But I am trying, sire."

The redhead paced up and down the room as if trapped, fingers of one hand fiercely twiddling a ring on the other.

"He needs that victory tomorrow, for without it all else becomes meaningless; he needs that victory, for with it the French will love him and laud him. Tomorrow at the gates of Calais he will not spare himself or his troops. Tomorrow he will fight to the end with all might and prowess he has. Yet, what if there is a flaw in his plan; have you ever asked yourself if he is somewhere there, on the brink between faith in himself and his arrogance wrong? Maybe, he made a mistake as we all do."

"But my master…"

"Listen to me!" Genesis halted in the middle of the room, enraged, frightening, and passionate cerulean eyes pinned him to the wall behind, bereaved of the gift of speech. "I cannot allow him to waste himself for whatever righteous reasons, and I wouldn't come here if I could do it myself, but I know that I am unable to follow him to the battlefield. I am no fool to think I am of any use thereat." The redhead took a deep breath and continued calmer. "So, you see, I have no one else to rely on but you."

Alber swallowed a lump in his throat; Genesis looked so vulnerable, and that image, of pale face adorned with painfully bright eyes, didn't accord with the usually confident to the point of haughty redhead.

"I will do what I can to help you and my master…"

"No, you will help _me_. If Sephiroth is wounded tomorrow, you will drag him out of that mayhem even if he orders you to leave him be. Do you understand me?"

"I do…"

"Swear on your honor!"

Alber averted his face; Genesis' gaze was impossible to bear. "I swear…"

The redhead simply nodded, relaxing as abruptly as he blazed up with anger, and even a faint smile flitted across his face. "I knew you were a bright one."

The youth flushed from sudden tenderness in Genesis' voice; was it how he spoke to his master when they were alone, with these enticing notes that were quick to change into ire? He had to admit to himself he could not understand his master's lover.

Genesis leaned against the wall, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the toes of his traveling boots, and the youth felt relieved, like a guilty child no longer questioned by insistent parents. Silence was somehow comfortable, even if Alber knew not what to add.

Suddenly Jean sat up on the straw bedding, eyes vacant, rolling widely in the eye sockets. Perhaps, awoken by the clamor of their loud conversation, he cried out.

"I hate him! He mutilated me, because I talked to his mother. I hate him! I hate…"

Not looking at Genesis, Alber hastily slumped by his brother's side, gently took his injured hand. "Jean, Jean, please, don't say anything like that," his brother's body was quivering in his arms, thin and hot, as that of the small withered bird. He spoke the same words yesterday, but Alber believed them to be the aftermath of a delirium; now he wasn't so sure any more, he wasn't sure of anything. "Hush, Jean, sleep, you are sick, but you will get better, I promise…"

"Hate him… hate him…" his brother whimpered, clutching his shoulders with a healthy hand, "hate… him…"

The young squire sobbed, feeling that same cold person, whose presence he felt within him on the battlefield of Crecy, return and overwhelm him. His heart was a deep well with dark waters, and everything fell into it, voraciously swallowed by that darkness, sending light ripples before disappearing. His brother hated his liege, but he would never let anything happen to Sephiroth, not after he swore; his brother had no right to hate Sephiroth.

Everything was ugly, as yellow abscess on his brother's hand, but it would go away, Alber thought, persuaded himself, and all would be fine as it was before the treason, before Crecy. No, he then understood, it was a mendacious illusion, and nothing would ever be the same.

Under Genesis' piercing gaze, he gently lowered his brother's body onto the straw bedding, stroked his wet sallow cheek with two trembling fingers; tears fell into the well of his heart, sent ripples, and then vanished.

He was so cold inside, colder than midnight winter wind.

"Please, sire, I beseech you…"

Genesis shook his auburn head, and tresses of dark molten gold spread over his smooth forehead; Alber could see them as if entranced, and then melodic voice helped him out of this sudden numbness.

"I know what you want, but I will not ask him to forgive your brother. If it is for me to decide, I will never remind Sephiroth of that treason, for I do not know how close he was to never forgiving me and I do not want to know." The redhead dropped his gaze and finished in a whisper. "You will have to ask so yourself."

Alber wanted to remind the redhead that his master loved him, but somehow couldn't force himself to say the words he deemed right. Finally, he sighed and grabbed one side of the bed.

"I am sorry I mentioned it, sire."

Together they carried Jean into the street and placed the bedding onto the wagon, harnessed with a horse.

"Out of the way, morons!"

In the doors they ran into a crude soldier, who impudently shouted at them and tried to shove Genesis aside. The redhead just looked at him, and one glare of those devilish voids was enough for the bloke to step aside, mumbling an apology. At times there was something in his master's lover, Alber felt it as well, something that left people helpless, unable to refuse anything the latter offered or demanded. Perhaps, it was Genesis' willpower, much stronger than his own.

The street was slowly emptying as his master's army was moving out of the city, and they hasted to lay his brother onto the creaking cart.

"Take good care of your brother, Alber," at parting Genesis said without a smile, "and look after him well, because if he ever tries to harm Sephiroth, I _will_ kill him."

Alber shivered, hiding his eyes from even a fleeting glance of scorching azure sapphires, and shriveled up to let the redhead pass. The youth knew it wasn't an empty threat to intimidate him; his master's lover was terse and veracious this time, expressing precisely what he would do should Jean, his poor Jean, try something as witless as betraying his liege again.

Alber sighed and climbed onto the wagon; having touched the rein, he guided the skinny jade, barely alive now, towards the rows dressed in variegated colors.

He understood why Genesis came; he hoped he would not fail both his master and his redheaded lover. Somehow.

The army was leaving Saint-Omer.

It was their last lunge before Calais.

* * *

In quivering candlelight Genesis could see maps strewn about the table in Sephiroth's marquee; two large parchment sheets showed Calais and its outskirts, old ink crossed out with new, darker lines whereat contravallation and circumvallation lines were reported to be by the small reconnaissance detachments sent out before sunset. Lines were straight, meticulously perfect, and the redhead recognized Sephiroth's steady confident hand.

Shifting his eyes from the Duke to his lover, Genesis reposed himself on the bedding of furs and hides, outwardly lazily calm, yet inwardly a stretched string. As anxious as he was before Crecy, this time he felt even worse, as though there was a tight knot in his chest, spreading and choking him. How many times in his life was he frightened like that? He could count them all with fingers on one hand.

From outside sounds of carpenters working were still being wafted to Genesis' ears; they worked two days without almost any breaks to finish the defenses the military genius of his lover designed against long and deadly arrows of Edward's bowmen. The redhead tried to dismiss the noise and concentrated on Sephiroth's voice.

His lover was speaking.

"… protected by the wooden shields, the infantry would move out first and, nearing the lines of contravallation, compel the archer's attention while the small detachment of cavalry under my command would circle them here," refined fingers delineated an approximate position of the ambush; it was the part of his lover' plan that worried Genesis the most, but not being educated in the art of war as Sephiroth was, he could not argue whether the precaution was needed or the knight's rational mind was overreacting. "In the meanwhile, your regiments would hold the center and after I deal with the archers, you will order the rest of the cavalry and infantry to advance towards the enemy troops."

The Duke, heretofore silently listening to his lover's words, accepted the battle plan without demurs. "How will I know when to attack, Your Majesty?"

Sephiroth pondered over the question for a moment. "The bugles will signal three times; the first two will be short, and the third one – longer. Then you would move out. Move as fast as you can and worry not of the longbows."

"Hast thou prepared a surprise for the Edward's forces?"

"No, not today. We will simply strike at the center, separate his army, and surround the remaining troops. It should suffice, but in case something goes wrong, Alber will inform you of the change in maneuvers." Sephiroth rose and folded his arms on his chest, now with his back to the Duke. That pose was familiar to a sweet flutter in Genesis' chest. "For most of the times I will be dealing with archers and catapults – if Edward has any – while your task is to make sure the advance goes as planned. I do not," he emphasized those words, "expect you to act disaccording to my orders unless our formation breaks and we are on our own. However, this should _not_ happen."

Odo rose as well. "Your Majesty could not be clearer. Tomorrow we will finally free my city and put that English bastard to flight. I swear to God that tomorrow will be a glorious day!"

Despite his age and seeming slowness, the Duke looked like a falcon ready to fall at its unsuspecting prey; his gestures were swift, eyes bright, and words glib. He already tasted the triumph whereas Sephiroth was as collected and stern as always.

They exchanged curt farewells befitting their titles, and Odo left. Everything was already decided yesterday in Saint-Omer, and today Sephiroth simply reminded the hotheaded – it seemed – Duke of their plan.

Genesis reluctantly left warmth of their shared bed; this time he didn't even have his own marquee, yet made himself scarce during the day, so that none of Sephiroth's allies had even the slightest reason to suspect they were lovers. In the meantime Sephiroth briskly paced up and down the narrow marquee, having halted only when the redhead opened his embrace. Then the knight froze in his arms, and the feeling he was holding something frail returned anew.

The silence was somehow solemn.

"So this is it," Genesis broke it first, "tomorrow or never."

"Tomorrow or never," Sephiroth echoed, and he felt a quiver run through his lover's body. He was afraid; they were afraid.

Genesis gently took the viscount's pale hand and led him out of the marquee into the dark crystalline night, a rare one in November.

He wanted Sephiroth to think of something other than the campaign.

"Look how placid the night is, as if it knows of the bloodshed tomorrow and tries to steal last peaceful moments from the inexorable clutches of fate. As a petty thief, it sneaks up to fires and marquees, fawns to the trees and frozen lakes, and all it gets is a moment evanescent and brittle as thawing ice. It seeks, and the search is endless until the dawn paints the dark horizon; then it comes to an end." His head atilt, Genesis dramatically waved his hand. "It bears resemblance to our lives when we, petty thieves, are trying to steal short moments of peace, knowing that the dawn is not far off. And even if the morrow is barren of promises, we will still cling to this moment, for whereas it lasts an instant, it is worth a lifetime."

"Humph, you are in one of your poetic moods today." Sephiroth always knew how to mar a moment like this.

"Do you mind?"

"I don't, but tomorrow the battle will be fought, and some of them," he gestured in the general direction of the encampment, "will never see another dawn. Try to explain it to them or to yourself, and you will only come to understand the uselessness of everything."

The redhead stubbornly shook his head. "I think they believe in your victory."

"Of course they do, and it is my duty to ensure they do even if I no longer have this faith. I cannot be completely honest with them. I have to eschew sharing my doubts for the sake of keeping the morale high, but it is a burden, knowing it only here."

Pale fingers touched the temple, and then Sephiroth dropped his hand as if tired to hold it there for long. Genesis caught his lover's palm, twined their fingers together and peered into silver-green lakes, deep and calm as if before a storm. It felt as if touching that cold aura again, an aura of a rigorous leader, not truly his lover and yet an inseparable part of him. It lasted but a moment. Sephiroth flashed a serene smile at him and after a gentle kiss on his forehead disappeared in the marquee.

The encampment was nearly dead, wrapped in silence as in silk, and only here and there flames flickered or a lone soldier began singing an old wistful tune.

Tomorrow, Genesis thought with growing anxiety, tomorrow something would happen.

For a little while he stood frozen by the entrance to his lover's marquee and then, having heard Sephiroth's voice calling him, slipped inside as well.

On the winter skies thin crescent found its peak and disappeared between clouds.

* * *

Marguerite knew something was wrong the moment she woke up. During these last days of poignant solitude she got used to the monotony of heavy silence in her head and only faint sounds from the outside world told her she was still alive – laughter, lewd invective, clangs of steel and cries of pain. Soldiers were entertaining themselves with the only means they knew, and those included whores and meaningless drunken quarrels.

She got used to the small prison of her marquee and malign feeling of helplessness alternating with thoughtless emptiness when the world seemed a dark spot in the sea of this admonishing and yet soothing voice. He always spoke to her when she fancied she saw her stepson entering her dwelling with a sword; he always told her of things no one else knew. Once he told her that Sephiroth's true mother was a demon, and even if she suspected Jenova was, it added reassurance. Demon's spawns were to be given over to fire and obloquy.

But today something changed. A commotion outside told her that before the cloth shielding the entrance was lifted and Philippe himself surrounded by his secretary and Lorenzo swiftly strode inside.

So His Majesty finally decided to grace her with his presence. Did it mean Sephiroth was close?

Dark, biting eyes, no longer bloodshot, stared at her face, eliciting a wide smile.

"Your Majesty."

"I have no time for your courtesy, treacherous woman. Your damned stepson indeed incited my people to a rebellion against me! How dares this insolent bastard! How could he turn his back on me when… when… I am in need of every loyal sword!"

"I tried to warn you…"

"You were too late, even with your warning!" Philippe was now pale as death. Fright weakened him, and she needed a stronger ally, only she had no one besides him. "Answer me, woman, what is he going to do? How many troops has he gathered? What is his tactics?"

"I don't know," Marguerite snorted, "your spies had to find that out."

"Then what use do I have of you? The news only reached me now, when his and that traitor's, Odo, army faced Edward, my sworn enemy. Tell me, do I have to pray now for that English bastard's victory?"

Lorenzo was silent, avoiding her eyes from the moment he entered. Now he was humbled by the inescapable truth of it all - her stepson was a schemer and a sinner.

"What use am I to you, you say, Your Majesty?" She savored each moment of her triumph. "I lived with him for thirty years, I know him better than any of your advisors ever will. Once he set a goal, he is unstoppable unless…" she smiled, "unless you know his weakness. And I know that weakness, which hides in the heart even such a cold devil's son has."

"So you know how to stop him."

Marguerite laughed. "Even better. I know how to stop him without shedding a single drop of the French blood, but first…" there was an insane glint in opal eyes, "first, let him defeat the Englishmen."

* * *

If a falcon flew over the field that cold morning, it would see two dark crescents on the barren hills near a huge city of Calais and an ice-blue band of a strait only a handful of wing flaps away. It would see a small coppice and earthworks hiding a well protected encampment of the Englishmen; wings cleaving the air, it would notice two thin lines of archers and a hulk of a dead catapult. Perhaps, it would even notice a tall silhouette with unnaturally long silver hair amid the quiescent crowd.

Yet, a falcon did not fly in the cloudy skies that day, and keen eyes did not see banners drooping in windless air or armor dimply and dangerously glistening in cold winter sun.

A lone horseman, desperately whipping his horse, was whirling away at full speed from one dark line to another; it was an unlucky ambassador Edward sent to him in last attempt to negotiate peace. There will be no peace between them.

Sephiroth unnoticeably shifted in the saddle, cat-like eyes traveling along the rows of his and Odo's cavalry further into the depths whereat the wooden wagons hid, an unpleasant surprise to their adversary he was certain. None of the French nobles has ever used a tactics against the longbows, always too arrogant to accept the yeomen as the real threat.

His only threat and biggest fear was cold and reliability of his ally; if the Duke followed his orders as meticulously as he should, they would have their victory. They would, likely, have it anyways, but to oppose Philippe and then Avignon Sephiroth had to have more than a half of his troops alive and unwounded.

The viscount pushed his forces forward early in the morning after a long rest from their swift lunge from Saint-Omer to Calais; he did not want to repeat Philippe's mistake and begin the battle after a long march when the infantry would be debilitated and an easy prey for the replete rested enemy.

Edward's army amassed behind the contravallation lines whereto the rider hurried, as if death itself was chasing him. Did he expect a crossbow bolt? Sephiroth would never stoop down to shooting an ambassador.

He left Genesis in the encampment, guarded by his vassals and not Duke's, whom he could not fully trust, especially with his lover's life, and the thought that he was safe soothed. No matter what happens on the battlefield today, Genesis will live, and it was hardly less important than the victory itself. Needless deaths in his name the knight did not welcome.

Eyes narrowing, Sephiroth then peered at the Edward's formation, as if seeking the king among vassals; ability to foresee and anticipate the enemy's tactics was ascribed to the most talented and perspicacious commanders, and that he will try to achieve today. What was Edward hoping for, his infamous bowmen aside? Their forces were stronger and they didn't spend months besieging a city. Could it be that the English king had a surprise of his own?

His banner fluttered to his left, firmly held by his squire, and Alber's face was illuminated by calm resolve he never noticed before; maybe, he should have looked closer. The youth felt his gaze and turned with a smile.

"God is with us today, messire."

God or no God, it was time.

For a moment Sephiroth closed his eyes, then half-rose in the stirrups and calmly ordered.

"Signal the overall attack."


	36. Chapter XXXV: Valor and slyness, part II

**_A/N: _**Huge (!) thanks to my beta, AlexJ69; and I hope this battle is worth the delay. XD

_**Short list of name, personalities, etc. **_

"…_his mother told him that people were fallen angels…__"_ – a part of Cathar's religion that stated that souls of fallen angels were imprisoned in human bodies.

_Lapsus linguae (lat.)_ – a slip of the tongue.

* * *

_**Chapter XXXV.**_

_**Valor and slyness.**_

_**Part II.**_

Genesis believed he had found the perfect pastime to subdue his worry and perfidious thoughts about a possible defeat, therefore he sat, numbly staring at the maps of the battlefield his lover left unrolled on the table. He acceded to Sephiroth's imperative demand to stay away from the battle not without an argument, which flared up only because he was too anxious, but the upshot of it was as predictable as the next sunrise. Rationally there was nothing to worry over, but the redhead's love was everything but rational.

The rough parchment underneath his fingers showed the battlefield as clearly as if he was standing on the hill looking at it – a small coppice that abutted on the outlines of Edward's defenses, the walls of Calais, the strait with but one detail lacking, and that detail was the one he craved to see most. Tips of his fingers ghosted over the flat images of hills where his lover's army gathered at this very moment, his mind picturing events that were happening thereat, and among the series of those there was one more distinct than others. With enviable lucidity the redhead could imagine a lone rider on a black horse, a silver pillar he deemed invincible crumbling as it crumbled once, and it was fear that finally forced him to rise.

The reality swept over him in a wave of cold air, of faint clangs of steel, and murmuring voices that seeped through the chink in the marquee; Genesis shivered, and winter frost had little to do with the tremors. He was suddenly reminded – not that he truly forgot, perhaps pushed it as far behind as he could – that Sephiroth was battling the enemy _now_, at this very moment, and their fate, entwined, was being decided on the fields of Calais.

The feeling of anxiety became overwhelming. With an obstinate frown, Genesis pushed the cloth aside and found himself facing a bearded visage of a sentry. A spear blocked his way, a trenchant steel line separating him and what he desired most.

"My master ordered me to guard you inside," the man objected in a nasal voice. Genesis shoved him aside with an acrimonious glance, or, rather, tried, for it wasn't easy to move a lumbering hulk in full plate armor.

"Get out of my way, bumpkin! Your master cannot cage me in this marquee."

"His Highness gave me orders, sire," the sentry was nonetheless adamant, "and his orders are the law."

Having heard their short argument, another lancer with his spear unsheathed neared the marquee, intentions to help the first sentry, should the redhead disobey, evident in the morose glance he shot at both of them. Choking with rampant ire, silently cursing Sephiroth for keeping him imprisoned by narrow-minded obedient pawns, Genesis retreated into the heated room and helplessly sprawled out on the bedding. Teeth bit into the soft flesh of his lips – lips that possessed the power of waking fire underneath the pale immaculate skin of his lover – and drops of blood trickled down Genesis' chin.

When he was six – he forgot many things, but somehow this memory lingered – his mother told him about God and Satan; she firmly believed they both existed from the very beginning, personifications of perennial dualism that begot the life of this world. The dualism was perfect, she said, when without one, its opposite could not exist, as there would be nothing to oppose. Without hatred love would not be known as joy would not be felt without sorrow; and from his passion the opposites were born, tearing him apart now.

Genesis straightened and with force pushed the bedding aside. Fires of emotions raged in his chest – not a flicker of a candle flame, but an overwhelming hurricane once believed to have had power over gods.

Gods and humans, ephemerons with sparks and those who traded that spark for immortality – why did they matter now, when at this very moment his lover, _his spark,_ fought for their fate?

Face distorted, Genesis threw the cloth shielding the entrance aside; the sentries tried to stop him anew, however, all their attempts shattered as ice against stone when the redhead withered them with a single glance. The spear bowed before him, and without realizing his palm was bleeding Genesis headed for, no, ran towards the hill wherefrom the battlefield could be seen.

It pained him to breathe.

A black cloak fluttered around Genesis' silhouette, and behind him hasty steps were waking silence on snow.

* * *

The resonant trumpet had scarcely ceased resounding when countless bugles echoed its boisterous battle cry, and on the windless sea of infantry ripples appeared. They were light at first, almost invisible, the cracks in perfect formation getting wider with each moment, until the whole sea quivered and moved forward. The gray welkin wrapped in a heavy blanket of clouds, disappeared between multi-colored flying squares of ancestral coat of arms, and the molten gold of his motto once again spilled towards the freedom of wind and rage of battle.

Astride, holding the reins of his impatient steed, Sephiroth watched as infantrymen pushed the moving fortress of wagons into the open and, keeping to its shelter or covering themselves with huge shields, began their planned advance towards the enemy. Having seeped through the rows of quiescent cavalry, thin rivulets merged, and it was again calmness of the sea gliding straight forward. For a moment he was mesmerized by the synchronous cadence – rise and fall – of arms and feet as his troops marched in step. They were silent now, no bugles playing during the advance, which only made them look deadlier. Like a tidal wave, they would roll in, destroy, and then roll back, leaving blood, ash, death.

The Englishmen started shooting when the infantry barely crossed a third of the distance separating them. For a moment the old fear returned, and Sephiroth was seeing halcyon laughing skies of Crecy, dotted with black harbingers of death; pain in his wounds that healed on skin yet lingered imprinted into his memory overwhelmed to a point when the viscount had to avert his face. The reminiscence disappeared the moment he heard Alber gasping; agape, his squire was staring at the battlefield where for the first time in their history of fighting a sworn enemy, the longbows were rendered helpless against the French infantry.

In a way, Sephiroth could be grateful to his predecessors for being foolish and thus letting the Englishmen grow complaisant and certain of their tactics.

The infantrymen were still marching in the same order, and the few corpses that lay on snow, bleeding, were drops in the ocean of moving human bodies. Long arrows harmlessly protruded from broad wooden panels, from large shields, a proof he didn't err in his calculations. The skies darkened with steel wasps for the second time, more bodies fell, but the insignificant losses were unable to hinder the slow, persistent advance. Ere it was time to lead the part of his cavalry through the coppice and straight into the left flank of the English army, Sephiroth found the Duke in the crowd and exchanged quick glances with him. The latter's curt nod was a good enough confirmation that their battle plan hadn't changed.

Two hundred horsemen followed the black steed silently; its maneuver safely hidden behind the advancing infantry and wavy linen of hummocks, the cavalry led by the silver-haired viscount stormed into the barren coppice. It was silence, which fell around him, that surprised Sephiroth – sounds from the battlefield rang muffled, as if from far away, and he ordered himself to dismiss all thoughts and guesses. His task was the most important one – to hew the enemy's left flank, bring panic and disorder into its ranks, confuse the battle formation, whereupon defeat would be a given outcome.

Twenty yards into the coppice, Sephiroth ordered his cavalry to switch over to a steady tread not to attract attention of sentries the enemy undoubtedly posted around the encampment. All around, trees were reaching out for the unwelcome intruders with lifeless branches, crooked trunks as black guardians closing in on them and shedding miraculously clinging withered leaves. Thick carpet underneath imbibed the clatter of hooves, hiding their presence in cobwebs of silence.

As ghosts, they continued through the coppice until a narrow ravine crossed their path. The enemy's encampment was close – Sephiroth could see shadows of sentries moving in milky placidity of fog. Then the knight dismounted and, having left his steed to Alber's care, made his way through thorny bushes, which covered the slopes of the gully, and across the small frozen rivulet. The upslope Sephiroth surmounted, crawling as carefully as he could not to alert the Englishmen to his presence and stoically ignoring the coldness of lumbering steel and dirt that clung to his hair. When he reached the end, the Englishmen could be seen so carelessly close to the ravine that he decided to act immediately. Having bared his faithful bastard sword, Sephiroth soundlessly struggled out of the gully and rose to full height; a treacherous twig gave out his presence the last moment, yet he was one step ahead of hapless sentries.

Frozen in consternation, the first Englishmen in colors of the Earl of Northampton received a stab in his abdomen and doubled up, while the viscount's misericord had already found its way to his companion's throat. A muffled groan joined a thin squeal Sephiroth suppressed with his gloved hand, mercilessly pressing cold steel into the bearded face till it bled. Lowering the convulsively trembling body to the ground, the viscount watched the other sentry choke with blood that gushed from the fatal wound in his throat.

Brothers in death, two sentries lay on the ground side by side, and placidity returned, its veil faultless anew, as if never torn.

Sephiroth dispassionately glanced at the slaughter through the slits in his helmet – there was no price too high for his victory.

His cavalry crossed the narrow ravine without much ado, and the knight mounted his jet-black steed on the go. Hooves clattered on the frozen ground as horses swept past a small group of trees, quaint, elongated shadows sliding on the mirror of the thin cracking ice. Like a steel arrow leaving its quiver, Sephiroth's cavalry under the indigo banner darted out of the coppice. Hale steeds leapt over the earthwork at full tilt and with ease – hooves lost touch with the ground for a moment, and the next, like an avalanche, the horsemen pounced upon defenseless archers. Several dozens of the Englishmen were able to turn to the new threat and shoot a few arrows, not all of them falling around the horsemen without harm. Cries of the dying blended with loud hooting of his vassals, embittered by previous defeats and driven by a stong desire to avenge those who fell at Crecy.

Having girded thin lines of archers from two sides, the cavalry cut through the first rows, swords tinctured sanguine and hooves splattering blood. Sephiroth felt his blood seething in his veins, familiar excitement rising from the depths of his soul that could never forget a besotting sensation of risking his life and claiming a victory. A brief triumph it was – as was everything about the war – and left emptiness on its wane. It seeped through his blood as passion, overwhelming him the moment his sword beheaded a tall archer; it smelled of blood and tasted of blood, and the fear was no more. His next opponent fell therebeside – the flamboyant bastard sword cleaved his body together with the longbow. The rumors about his inhuman strength weren't exactly rumors.

Having confused their ranks, the cavalry scattered the archer's left flank, yet most of them were able to regroup and now gathered by the banner of the heavy infantry that came on time to assist them. Edward had no cavalry, and decided to direct some forces from the center to defend the bowmen.

"Scatter around!" Sephiroth shouted, having risen in the stirrups. Arrows arched across the skies, fell among the scattered horsemen, but the harvest of death was meager, only a few knights with shafts in their chests. However, with each moment, the infantry increased in numbers, now being a significant threat to his depleted detachment.

Sephiroth flattened an archer with his horse, swung his bastard sword, ignoring an arrow that swished by; the Englishman made an attempt to yield, but the knight's blade tore through his chest and finished its path through someone else's throat. To his right another Englishman fell with his head crushed with a Morgenstern like a ripe melon. They were winning, an elated thought flashed in Sephiroth's head as lighting. The rest of the archers threw their bows onto the ground and ran for their lives, no longer bothering to maintain anything that would resemble a formation. Among them were a few brave ones, who bared their short swords and faced the armored horsemen, only to be crushed and swept off by steel towers.

His jet-black steed was ahead of the cavalry detachment when, having leapt over a mutilated body, suddenly halted and pranced. Sephiroth clenched the rein, adroitly balancing in the saddle and using spurs to subdue and calm the frightened animal. Rows of heavy infantry bristled with lances ten or thereby yards away. Two of his vassals didn't halt in time, horses ran against whetted steel, prancing in agony, and Sephiroth watched – with no other emotions but the familiar excitement – bodies turn into a bloody medley. Belated cries for help were cut short by the merciless millstone called war, blades rising and falling evenly as though in a real mill. They wouldn't be able to break through the enemy's formation and get to Edward's positions, repeating the famous feat of Alexander the Great in southern Anatolia; that Sephiroth thought, already turning his steed around.

"Retreat!"

His order, however, wasn't heard, as, driven by the same excitement and overwhelming feeling of invincibility, his vassals continued to charge blindly, horses leaping over the straight rows and into the crowd of enemies only to fall with ripped up abdomens and broken legs. Before the knights could rise, plumages were trampled into melting dirt and armor – pierced with spears and swords. Underneath, thin streamlets of blood mixed with liquid mire.

There were too few of them. Seeing the disaster, Sephiroth caught Alber's horse by the brittle and shouted to the youth, "Give the signal and then sound the retreat." His squire obeyed without delay, and clear sounds of the bugle tore through the neigh of horses and battle mayhem, two short ones and then the third one – longer, like a wail. Other bugles took up the melody, a merry, even perky tune. The horsemen turned around in time to see the first glimpses of their infantry overflowing the contravallation lines and with loud cries, their weapons lifted aloft, fearlessly pouncing upon the Englishmen.

* * *

Genesis could not see Sephiroth's advance wherefrom he stood. The coppice, even barren, hid the horsemen from his intent gaze, leaving only the center and enemy's perfect formations to watch, maddening anxiety and frustration growing.

For a while – to Genesis it seemed an eternity – nothing was happening, only the dark line of infantrymen was unhurriedly advancing towards the earthworks under the thick rain of arrows. The sight mesmerized him, bringing back memories of Crecy, of arrows protruding form his lover's body, of visage palling on a straw pillow and emerald eyes losing colors of life. His burning desire to confess his feelings Genesis remembered also, but amidst all reminiscences arrows were the most vivid, three shafts vermilion from dry blood. His hands and legs were freezing, but in his current state the redhead barely felt the inconveniencies. Somehow, he was angry with the Duke, irrationally so, but angry nonetheless, because while Odo stood and waited, Sephiroth fought, spilled blood, and risked his life. With his lover's lineage, it had to be the other way around, yet – Genesis knew – it was useless to reason the silver-haired, stubborn enigma out of what he had conceived.

A commotion by the enemy's lines attracted his attention at once – black dots were running, screaming, and suddenly deadly arrows stopped falling. The redhead squinted his eyes to get a better view, but all he was seeing were black dots, some bigger, other smaller, one of which, he knew, was his lover. He could see horsemen falling, each time wondering whether it was Sephiroth, each time feeling his heart skip a beat and then frantically resume its rabid pace. Genesis loathed this feeling of helplessness more than anything or anyone else now.

Then the French infantry quickened its steps, bridging the gap in one swift lunge, and another battle broke out, no less fierce than the one before that. The already damaged left flank was the first one to draw back under the onslaught where the infantry was reinforced by the cavalry. The center of the English army resisted longer, finally cracking like a rotten nut when the Duke and his forces arrived in time to help. Streamlets of warriors in colors of French nobles poured into the crack, hastily taking advantage to separate and surround the enemy. The Duke's red banner proudly fluttered in the wind, noticeable even from afar. Genesis plunged his nails deep into his palm until scarlet crescents appeared on pale from frost skin. They were winning, the thought flitted across his mind before returning in an overpowering wave of relief and triumph. They… Sephiroth was winning, which meant that the first step in their long journey had been made.

The situation on the right flank was the worst; however, it could no longer influence the outcome of the battle for Calais. To escape encirclement, the Englishmen took flight the moment the center cracked, around five hundred remaining infantrymen under Edward's personal banner. Only now Genesis noticed boats amassed on the shore of the strait.

A few escaped while the French forces were busy finishing off or accepting surrender of the crushed army; later Genesis would learn that the English King was among those few. Yet, killing or capturing Edward wasn't Sephiroth's objective, only undermine his forces to bereave the latter of the opportunity to invade his shores again. Instead, the French set about pillaging the Englishmen's encampment, fires flared up, devouring motley marquees and climbing the dead frame of a catapult. The bright flower had the redhead's eyes riveted on it for a long time, and when he tore his gaze away from slaughter, the battle was over. Separate detachments of the English infantry were retreating towards the strait led by a dozen horsemen under Edward's banner, likely, Edward himself, the Black Prince, and his closest advisors.

Then Genesis saw Sephiroth - there could be no mistake about it. Long silver tresses trailing him as a halo, he was flying like an arrow from the bow towards the escaping enemy. Each time he overtook an Englishman, huge sword rose and flitted athwart, and under the hooves a dead body fell. Genesis watched his lover with a mixture of deep relief – after all, he was alive and unscathed – and frustration at his carelessness. Soon Viscount du Bugey was joined by another dozen or so horsemen, yet they quickly lost interest and turned back to looting Edward's encampment. Only Sephiroth, a lone silver and black arrow, flew forward until there was no one to pursue – every enemy was either dead or cowardly escaping on boats.

Genesis watched the chase until it ended, then, staggering, headed downhill. He felt no less exhausted than if he fought the battle side by side with Sephiroth.

One time he had to survive the three-day chase from Toulouse after he had slain the bishop, who signed his mother's order for execution; then it seemed there could be no worse hell, and even the promised eternal punishment in the nethermost fires paled compared to the sight of his mother being burnt alive. Then many things seemed very simple and obvious.

And long before that, his mother told him that people were fallen angels.

* * *

His countenance a pale, cold perfection, Sephiroth removed the bloodied helmet and through squinted in a cat-like manner eyes looked at the world around him. It was hard to breathe, air burning in his lungs with every heave and heart pounding in his chest louder than drums. His jet-black steed was lathered, white flocks hanging from the bit between its teeth. Slowly, as if moving in a dream world, the viscount alighted in front of the knight from Edward's retinue, noticing every detail from blood spattered across his breastplate to the ashen bearded face.

Perhaps, he was worth a lot of gold, this noble, who followed his king into this campaign, hoping to earn glory and bring back loot from French cities and villages. Perhaps, he burnt many settlements and raped French women or children with a smile on his ruddy face; perhaps, he was innocent. Perhaps, he simply obeyed orders.

It mattered not. Sephiroth raised his sword.

The knight cast the mace aside and kneeled on the frozen ground, "Mercy, gallant sire!"

Sephiroth didn't bother to pay attention to the mumblings and in one swing of the flamboyant sword decapitated the enemy. The body slumped, curled at his feet, and the frozen ground underneath was painted with crimson.

He won. The thought came belatedly.

When he first began killing, Sephiroth told himself they were lifeless husks without personality, walking and breathing masses of bones and flesh, and so they were until he turned seventeen and the lie no longer consoled his rational mind. It was inside every human being, imbibed with mother's milk desire to kill and hurt, inescapable truth of fragile duality, which in some was suppressed, in others – set free. He killed people and he would kill; should there be need for such measures, he would not hesitate, because… because he was human.

And murder was just as human as was love.

Sephiroth glanced at the battlefield and suddenly laughed, his laughter deep-throat, low, devoid of mirth. The reality was still a picture of annihilation painted with blood and on blood – carmine husks of lifeless iron piled up in graceless heaps and white, fat human intestines coiled like huge sepulchral worms among the dead. The bodies lay scattered as though by hand of a dispassionate god. He needed to give out orders to have those hopelessly wounded slaughtered, to gather his troops and prepare to enter Calais, to negotiate with Sir Jean de Vienne, to…

He had so much to do, and he was already so tired.

"What should we do with the prisoners, messire?" Alber's voice was muffled, as if wafted to his ears from a deep well. The elation of triumph died out, inside leaving an ashen wasteland of profound indifference.

"Pass the word along to the Duke to have lots cast and a half of them beheaded by sunrise," replied Sephiroth and marched off the battlefield.

_Alea jacta est. _

His die has already been cast.

* * *

The portly figure of the Duke towered above the table in the most victorious manner, vibrant features breathing triumph and eyes vividly sparkling from underneath the bushy eyebrows. For a solid half hour, Odo was expressing how pleased and grateful he was to Sephiroth for returning the city to his possession, while the knight sat at the table, taciturn, cold, being the utter opposite of his fervent ally.

They were back at Sephiroth's marquee, left to deal with the bloody and dirty consequences of their victory. Knowing that, Genesis was glad to have a few precious moments to look at his silver-haired lover, dressed in a simple white cloak, which only accentuated the unusual paleness. Under the mask, the redhead could recognize barely noticeable signs of his triumph, but fatigue made them outwardly invisible.

The light was wan, two flickering candles in both corners of the marquee, and Sephiroth's features were ghostly in it, a familiar refined visage adorned with two green cat-like slits of eyes. Suddenly, not thinking of the reason, Genesis wondered why his lover had such eyes, devilish eyes.

Like those of a fallen angel.

The air smelled of sweet incense – the mandatory prayer to God was offered after the most exigent orders had been issued. The battle for Calais, which was yet to receive its name in the history of France, ended three hours ago with their complete victory.

When Genesis saw his lover wearily near their marquee, he barely suppressed an unconquerable desire to kiss him in front of those pompous hypocrites and fools, yet – he knew – his expressive joy would only ruin them in the end. Loath to admit his own rightness, the redhead watched his lover and the Duke begin to plan the next stage of their scheme, as always confined to a role of an almost invisible, silent shadow. How long this role, played out of love, would satisfy him, however, was a different matter altogether.

Then Genesis' thoughts, ironic mostly, returned to Odo, the personification of eloquence and comity, but no matter of whom or what he thought, his eyes remained riveted on his lover.

"This glorious day will be remembered by our progenies and their offsprings for years to come." Sephiroth's face was blank, as if meticulously carved from marble, yet in his triumph the Duke of Burgundy noticed nothing. "Did you see how that English coward fled? As if there was a horde of demons chasing him… I swear to God, Your Majesty, that in my lifetime I have never seen a person more worthy to wear a crown than you."

There was a lifeless smile on his lover's thin lips, a sign he was tired, and Genesis had to fight another strong desire to turn Odo of Burgundy out of doors rather impolitely, his pompous titles notwithstanding. Sephiroth came back alive, and it was hard to imagine matters more important, at least for the time being.

"Your expression of eulogy is appreciated, however, we have more urgent matters to take care of. Where is Sir Jean?"

"He will join us as soon as maybe. I sent a messenger to Calais right after the Earl of Northampton surrendered his regiment." The Duke finally seated himself, radiating the same pleased aura. 'Twas easy for him to be cheerful, since for most of time the battle was fought by Sephiroth and his forces; always, his lover wanted to be the first, ahead of everyone, or it simply was the place he intrinsically belonged at. "Right after I received your warning that Philippe might know of our scheme, I sent a letter to Calais with a brave Flemish fisherman. Sir Jean is my old, tried-and-true friend, hence I trusted him with the knowledge of Your Majesty's clandestine plans. He was eager to hear someone rebelled against Philippe and was willing to help Calais abandoned to its dreary fate…"

"I suspect his eagerness is going to cost me… quite a lot." Sephiroth interjected with a mocking note, to which the Duke calmly shrugged his shoulders.

"Generosity, Your Majesty, has never been a bad trait for an anointed king."

Sephiroth settled back in his chair, his pose – hands on his knees and head resting on the wooden board – ever so graceful despite fatigue. Framed in thinnest silver, his refined profile looked perfect now, as though limned by a skillful artist.

"Did you have the wounded counted?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. My losses are insignificant – two dozens dead in my cavalry regiment and a hundred in my infantry."

"I lost fifty horsemen and the same amount in infantry. Those are insignificant casualties, indeed." Genesis noticed how his lover occasionally took a white patterned handkerchief out of the pocket and wiped his hands on cloth, each time leaving another lace on it, scarlet. Nonetheless, each time his expression was stoically dispassionate. "How many wounded are now in the encampment?"

"Around two hundred, and only a dozen of seriously injured. Arrows." He added as if to apologize.

"Arrows, then." For a moment Sephiroth sat silent, having propped his head up on his elbow, as though to recollect his dissipating thoughts. "We won't be dealing with longbows, for I know Philippe will never stoop to using tactics of yeomen."

"But you have to admit, Your Majesty," the Duke's face broke into a sly smile, "they are still dirty peasants, and no match for the armored cavalry."

Alber saved his lover from answering, having entered the marquee and announced with proper solemnity, "Sir Jean de Vienne, by God's grace the military leader of Calais." Then bowed. "Your Majesty."

Sir Jean entered next. He was tall and as thin as a rake, Genesis thought with mockery; expressions flitting across his long, pale face betrayed haughtiness inherent in all nobles and even intelligence, which was a much rarer case. He was dressed in a warlike armor with a clean yellow gambeson underneath his breastplate; a short sword in richly decorated scabbard was affixed to his belt.

"Your Highness," how his back didn't break while bowing, was a surprise for the redhead, "As soon as circumstance permitted, I arrived to express my deepest gratitude for your valor and prowess, by which many of my people were saved today."

"Sir Jean," another tired, fleeting smile, "please, do join us. Prior to your arrival, we were discussing the time it would be best for us to enter Calais."

The military leader exchanged quick glances with the Duke and occupied the third chair specifically left for him. "Whenever you desire, Your Highness. The city is ready to open its gates even now."

"It is too late; I would prefer that the ceremony would be postponed until tomorrow."

"Certainly. I will surrender my power as a military leader together with the attributes, in exchange to which I shall ask to keep some of the city's previously awarded freedoms, notably those that concern the trade. Our valorous citizens…"

"None of the privileges your city had under Philippe's reign will be taken from you," Sephiroth intervened, "however, until I am crowned King of France, I see it pointless to discuss the new ones."

"I shall rely on Thy wisdom. Your Majesty has my sword and loyalty of those, who were ready to defend Calais even if it meant losing their lives. Philippe abandoned us to our grim fates. We had eaten everything, I wrote to His Majesty at the beginning of October, even the cats, and dogs, and horses, and there was nothing left for us but to die of hunger unless He came soon. He came, but was too weak and coward to win the battle and drive the Englishmen away. France needs a stronger king."

On such solemn note he fell silent. Sephiroth twiddled a goose quill in his fingers, then slowly wiped them with the handkerchief.

"I appreciate the gratitude, Sir Jean."

"This is the least I can offer."

Every talk started with sweet pleasantries and ended with satisfying personal interests. Genesis wasn't wrong. Silence ensued after the knight's words, and the Duke immediately seized an opportunity to change the topic of the conversation.

"It was agreed between us that Calais would be returned to my possession after the war, as would additional lands in Normandy that currently belong to the closest allies of the King. The city and those lands will serve the crown as frontier guardians against the Englishmen."

Sir Jean livened up at once. "His Majesty's wisdom and generosity is infinite. If my services are deemed to be worthy…"

Sephiroth didn't have the patience today. "What do you want, Sir Jean?"

"A small favor." The knight smoothly replied. "There is a large city, Lille, to the south, and it is for the benefit…"

"In other words, you want it."

"I am certain His Majesty won't forget his loyal servants after the victory over Philippe."

Genesis smirked to himself. As vultures, they were deciding how to divide a prey that hasn't yet died. Sephiroth seemed to have had similar thoughts, as he eyed his allies patiently yet with unhidden coldness.

"I shall devote my attention to your solicitations, Sir Jean."

Despite the tone, to all four of them present at the marquee, the answer clearly meant 'yes'.

Thereupon both the Duke and the military leader of Calais rose to take their leave.

"I have another request," Sephiroth's words found them by the exit, "a minor one. Tomorrow I would like to see all dead bodies buried, which means… yes, Sir Jean, it means I am expecting your faithful citizens to work at night. I hope it is not that onerous."

Sir Jean's pale face momentarily blushed. "No, Your Majesty, certainly not."

"I don't like this… this Sir Jean," Genesis announced when both of the nobles were far enough not to hear his words. "Odo is just a sly fox, but _this_ new friend of his… he is a greedy scavenger. We can win…"

Sephiroth cast an almost pleading look at him.

"Genesis, can this conversation wait? Right now we need as many allies as we can get, foxes, scavengers… especially scavengers. You will understand. But today I am tired, so call my squire, and after I talk to him leave me to rest."

Genesis drew a deep breath to calm himself and called for Alber. The youth appeared in the twinkle of an eye, as though he has been waiting for his master's orders somewhere nearby. Only now the redhead noticed that he was also exhausted, but desperately tried to pretend he was not.

"Did our venerable guest leave?" Anew, Genesis caught a tinge of sarcasm in Sephiroth's deep voice.

"Yes, messire, Sir Jean left for Calais shortly after you had dismissed him."

"Good. Did the Duke understand my orders about the prisoners?"

"He did, messire. The scaffolds are already built."

"Even better." Sephiroth absent-mindedly thrummed on the table, pondering over something for a moment. "You may go and have some rest."

However, the youth didn't move. "There is one more issue that demands your attention, messire," Alber looked down, cheeks glowing with rich crimson. "The enemy left a whole army of harlots at the camp. What… what should your vassals do with them?"

His lover gently smirked – at the request or at Alber's shyness, it was hard to tell. "Do with them? Let the soldiers have an entertainment for a night and then on my behalf order to set the loose women free."

"I shall do as you asked."

Finally, Alber left as well with an apologetic look on his face, and Genesis joined his lover by the table. Sephiroth's thoughtful eyes met his, and when he drew forward for a deep kiss, bloodied and stained with dirt silver tresses fell across his forehead. Genesis hungrily lipped his lover's mouth, caressing cold skin with his tongue, and for a moment nothing was more important than those pale lips tightly locked with his.

"I appreciate you gave my request enough attention and came back alive," he whispered into Sephiroth's ear after the kiss ended, "Your silver Majesty."

"'Tis a _lapsus linguae_ on your part, Genesis. I didn't do it at your desire," in chime with the teasing words, his lover's slender hand plunged into his hair, stroked his neck. "Forgive me thus."

The gesture reminded Genesis of the handkerchief he saw Sephiroth wipe his hands with earlier. He freed himself from his lover's embrace albeit it meant interrupting the latter's slow and tender caress.

"Let me see your hand."

"It is just a scratch."

"I know that it is only a scratch," Genesis mordantly replied, "but a scratch like this can start an infection."

Sephiroth shot a displeased glance at him. "I am not easily susceptible to disease." Then extended his left hand, sighing, "Just be quick. I am tired."

A thin cut ran along his lover's palm, extending onto the forearm, as Genesis carefully rolled up the sleeves of his cotardie. The soaked cloth of the undershirt adhered to the smooth skin, impossible to be removed without hurting the knight. The redhead threw more firewood on the fire and kindled both of the braziers until the air in the room became sultry even for a hot summer day. By that time the water in a huge copper basin boiled, and, having dipped a piece of clean cloth in it, Genesis kneeled by his silent lover.

"You are insufferable, Seph."

Emerald eyes blinked slowly and with pleasure, bright, like cat's. "And you are being repetitive."

Hot water dripping onto his knees, Genesis placed the cloth onto Sephiroth's palm, gently moving it along the wound. His lover's undershirt got soaked with crimson water, but could be easily removed now that the dry blood got sodden. The pale skin was marred by an ugly cut, which was already skinned over, and only the palm was still bleeding because Sephiroth kept moving his fingers. The redhead meticulously rinsed the scratch and dressed it in clean white cloth, his efforts rewarded with a gentle tired kiss.

"I am not done yet."

Sephiroth tried to object, only Genesis was adamant. He stripped his lover to his waist and didn't rest until all the dirt and blood was gone from magnificent silver hair. His lover fell asleep during his ministrations, which was not surprising in the least, therefore after silver hair dried up, he carried Sephiroth to the bedding and covered his body with a blanket.

He was still joyous they won and his lover came back unharmed.

For a few moments azure eyes watched Sephiroth's pale face shrouded in peaceful slumber, thin crescents of black eyelashes scarcely fluttering on the cheeks and tresses of shimmering silver scattered on the high forehead. His injured hand rested by his side.

"I love you," the redhead whispered, and Sephiroth didn't hear him.

Then Genesis threw a warm cloak over his shoulders and took a seat by the knight's side on the bedding. The redhead was going make sure he got enough rest.

"At times, I envy those capable of feeling fanatical bigotry towards anything – be it Christianity, Islam, or someone's fleeting delusions." His lover suddenly whispered with closed eyes, and Genesis flinched at the sadness in deep, sleepy voice. So Sephiroth wasn't sleeping all this time.

"Why?"

"Then I would not have to remember the dead. Then I would have an excuse to believe in some flawless _righteous _reasoning, but…all I am left is confined between the boundaries of seeing the flaws and attempting to justify them."

"Are you not content with seeing the flaws?"

"No, not the flaws," was the quiet, enigmatic answer. "At times we are – and I am no exception – cowards and hypocrites, seeking easier answers. My fleeting desire was simply a reflection of this trait."

Genesis looked at his lover, and it was Sephiroth, who lowered his eyes first, a ghost of a smile barely visible in the corners of thin lips.

* * *

Marguerite was brought into the King's marquee late at night, when the young moon shimmered with yellow and silver on the dark winter skies. It reminded her of a huge eye, like an owl's, only devoid of pupils, and it was watching her without blinking.

Philippe was black as a thundercloud, as was Lorenzo, and the large room reminded her of a deep grave. Marguerite looked around in morbid fright, but there was no one there, besides the French King, the Lombard and a few nobles.

"We need to so something about that arrogant parvenu – your stepson – foolish woman. Today he defeated the Englishmen." Said Philippe, gesturing to the messenger who hitherto remained silent and hidden in shadows. "You said you knew how to stop him without having our troops involved. The ease, with which he defeated that English bastard, suggests that it is very unadvisable to battle him face to face."

Marguerite ran her hand through once luxuriant brown wave, a tuft of coarse, touched with gray hair remaining in her fist when she brought it to her eyes. Was she that old and ugly?

"My stepson sinned greatly. He took a redheaded monk to his bed," she explained meeting confused glances. "They are lovers now, him and that devil's spawn, Genesis."

"And what does it mean?" Philippe began, losing his patience.

"If you take Genesis away from him, you will be able to negotiate… to demand anything you desire. My stepson," for a moment she felt, as though her heart was stabbed with a whetted knife, "loves him. Sephiroth will do anything not to let that monk die. If you have Genesis and threaten to execute him, my stepson will surrender without fight."

Once she could do anything – even poison a girl her age – just to cling to that faint hope of being loved. She would do it over and over again out of the same love, but God called for her, for his faithful daughter, and she forgot everything. God was calling for her even know. Marguerite lifted her head. Didn't they hear Him? Instead, both Philippe and Lorenzo exchanged perplexed, suspicious glances.

"If whatever you have just said is true… I don't understand your motive, woman. He is your son, after all."

"My interest?" She laughed, eyes devoid of mirth and expression lacking saneness. "There never was one, for I am here to fulfill His sacred will. God cursed them from His throne in Heaven for the sins of flesh and forbidden pleasures of sodomy. God demands them to be burnt on the stake." There was a murmur among the nobles, some hastily crossed themselves, and only Lorenzo watched her with biting dark eyes. With expression of inhuman frightening bliss painted across her face – the same one, with which children watched their fellow villagers being burnt alive and their parents threw stones at convicts dragged towards the scaffold – Marguerite lifted her hands up as if in righteous prayer and screamed. "Demons should burn in flames forever!"


	37. Chapter XXXVI: Triumph and calumny

**_A/N: _**Finally I got around to writing this chapter. So for those who patiently waited… Beta'ed by AlexJ69, to whom I am as always grateful...

* * *

_**Chapter XXXVI.**_

_**Triumph and calumny.**_

"_And behold! He cometh with ten thousands of His holy ones__  
__To execute judgment upon all,__  
__And to destroy all the ungodly." (The Book of Enoch, 1:9).*_

The day was breaking. Seamless clouds veiled the morning skies, casting quivering shadows onto the barren ground below, as their relentless shepherd, wind, herded them together. Half-concealed with white mist, the awoken sun curiously peeked at the city below, from time to time gifting its inhabitants with an evanescent, pale-gold smile. With every morrow closer and closer to the first winter hour, the star of the day had been losing its eternal battle with time by a few minutes, as if it was getting tired of its quotidian tasks of giving warmth and life.

Far below, the stately procession stretched for about a quarter of a league on the road that led to the gates of Calais, now wide open. For months the road had not seen such boisterous exhilaration, having remained, until now, a dull observer of an army besieging a slowly dying city. It saw much – blood being spilled, bodies being indifferently thrown into the fosse around the fortified walls, cheerless human chains of homeless women and children – it saw it all, yet remembered nothing. And now, as if meeting its liberators, it eagerly trembled underneath hundreds of hooves and thousands of heavy boots, obediently taking the blows and bowing before their might - a lonely, gray road. Like tears, pools of icebound water glistened near the roadside, as though the mute road wept for the Frenchmen and their chosen king, knowing that it would outlive them all, abandoned to frosts and rays of scorching summer sun until its very stone would be reduced to dust.

Long ago, the procession passed the newly piled up hummocks of dirt whereat hunched up men and women filled up ditches of contravallation lines with dead bodies. Armor and weapons were heaped therebeside, ready to be melted down in the forges of Calais' smiths and used to repair the Frenchmen's gear, to hammer new spurs, helmets, and breastplates; to turn the endless wheel of war. When the horsemen rode by them, laborers tore themselves away from their despondent task and peered into the crowd of ceremonially dressed nobles just to steal one furtive glance at the regal figure in the middle of the commotion. Silver spilled over the glistening pectoral and pale-green eyes turned towards something in the distance, Sephiroth sat in state on his jet-black steed with the thinnest of smiles hidden in the corner of his lips. It was hard to tell what that smile concealed, whether condescending mockery or gentle expression of triumph, but everyone who saw him that day swore they had seen an angel.

The procession moved slowly, allowing peasants, who stood by the road, to watch it, meekly clutching hats in calloused hands. No salutatory shouts were heard. Silently, emaciated from hunger people followed victors and their saviors with tired glances, wondering if their presence meant more levies and oppression.

Hidden in the throng surrounding the Duke of Burgundy and Viscount du Bugey, was another no less important hero of the occasion, yet his seemingly unostentatious appearance attracted little attention. A black hood thrown over porcelain features, rode a man, rumored to be the viscount's shadow, whether a monk, an advisor or someone darker and more mysterious, no one properly knew and until now, no one pondered over his role too much. Viscounts could allow themselves frivolities, however, kings could not.

The procession flashed its variegated colors of cloaks and banners, disappearing in the maze of narrow streets, and, grinding on the rusty hinges, slammed the gates of Calais.

Behind them wept the lonely gray road.

A different sight met the procession inside. Albeit still cheerless and colorless like winter around them, main streets were decorated with motley cloth hanging down from the windows of jutting second and third floors. People thronged the alleys and squares, mounted the stairs despite the biting cold of a mid-November morning; shifting their feet, they were patiently waiting for the cavalcade to pass. Whereas in summer women would be throwing buds of roses under the hooves and the road would be flowered, they had nothing to offer that day. Holding their children, they bowed from the waist to the passing French army. Some of them were smiling. Along the streets, crossbowmen and lancers lined up, holding back the poor just in case there was an overzealous citizen among them – which would not be all that surprising, for the starved inhabitants of Calais were on the verge of worshiping anyone who came to their aid.

Reduced to penury, Calais greeted the uncrowned king with a strained peal akin to the toll of the tocsin.

The procession – Sir Jean agreed to let a fourth of all French troops into Calais – now stretched from the gates to the market square, its center dragging past the shops of smiths, armorers, and tinmen. From time to time a noble reached for his purse and threw a few silver and golden coins into the crowd; then the turmoil would increase, and occasional yells would tear the solemn placidity.

Sephiroth paid it no heed. With the same unmeaning expression that could hide the most unexpected thoughts, he guided his steed with the flow of the procession, having only once remarked to the Duke that the conditions of the city seemed fairly satisfactory. Small stores glided by in thin mist, their shabby signboards creaking in caress-like gusts of wind. Intently staring at the houses, vigilant as ever, the knight expressed his tension only in a way his fingers curled around the handle of his bastard sword under the ermine cloak. He wasn't going to have a vengeful English archer or a fanatic ruin his triumph, not after he had planned it so meticulously and began his campaign with unquestionable success.

On the crossroads, the stately train turned to the left and into the wide Street of Tanners, cleared of the cram of wagons, horses, and livestock; now a straightforward, cobbled band, clutched between rows of shops and houses, it ended by the entrance to the town hall. Sephiroth glimpsed at the sentries on each side, shifting in the saddle so that he could observe the whole street from the swaying back of his steed. He could feel numerous gazes riveted just on him, an unpleasant sensation, for he always disliked unduly attention – be it from the dressed up nobles in Paris or from the ragged inhabitants of the port in Northern France. The moment he remembered Clalais was a port, a distinctive, acrid smell of rotten fish was wafted to him from the pier. Sephiroth turned to speak to his squire when suddenly a woman dashed out of the throng and, despite the effort of the convoy, forced her way through it and kneeled in the ankle-deep cold slush. She wasn't very old, but her haggard face told otherwise, bearing numerous traces of famine and disease, which gave her skin a yellowish hue. Her dirty hair matched her threadbare dress.

"Sire, please, take this," surprise flickered in the eyes a shade lighter than the color of spring grass, as Sephiroth bent over to extend his hand and watched a tin trinket with barely visible engravings fall onto his palm, "as a token of gratitude for saving my children from starvation. It has been in my family for generations…"

"Away with you, filthy woman!" A guard to his left recovered and pushed her aside with the blunt side of the spear, yet before the ragged woman disappeared behind, Sephiroth saw another glimpse of passion-filled peep. That was different passion altogether, not lust, but a chaste awe one would offer a deity. Surprise lingering, Sephiroth brought the trinket to his eyes, but before he could read the engravings, his steed stumbled and the piece of tin fell into dirt. The knight shot a glance back, but the woman could no longer be seen and stopping the procession to retrieve the tinplate engraving was hardly an option.

They were awaited by the town hall. Surrounded by eminent townsmen and nobles, all dressed as stately as the city's long siege allowed them, froze Sir Jean de Vienne. His tall, lanky figure noticeably stood out among the rest of his guests. Again, he was dressed in full battle armor, which was polished to the last rusty spot and shone dimly in the morning sunlight, clinging to his frame frozen in a stiff pose – the same one that earned an epithet of a rake from his acerbic lover.

Cold, heavy armor hindering his movements, Sephiroth alighted, and into the slush, another white wave around his shoulders, cascaded the luxurious ermine cloak. Even the absence of the crown and befitting French Lilies didn't belie the image of a king as the knight slowly neared Sir Jean and accepted his deep bow with that same smile. Yet, at the same time something else vied with that image underneath, something that would later, in rumors, win him the title of the angel of death.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Your Majesty," dry, chapped from starvation and frost lips brushed against his fingers, "and forgive the circumstances that didn't allow us to greet Thee accordingly."

The smile, polite and impersonal, didn't disappear from thin lips, now tugging at its edges, as the unwavering gaze traveled along Sir Jean's companions-in-arms and their families; then women dropped curtseys and men bowed, not without tension or awkwardness at times. Sephiroth wondered whether everyone present there accepted his new role or he was to expect a dagger in the back – after all, even if such was his desire, he wouldn't be able to buy them all.

"Your efforts are most pleasing, I assure you, Sir Jean," in the rustle of the cloak and faint clangs of steel, he was already moving away with the Duke by his side, impatient to wait for the gallant response. The leader of Calais followed, keeping up with long swift strides of his liege, and the rest of the small court stretched behind them, engrossed in what the court was usually engrossed in – whispering gossips, exchanging lustful glances, and hiding jealousy underneath polite smiles.

The town hall was decorated scarcely, only the main corridors lit with enough light to see the way, while branching halls remained dark; the cold reined in the convoluted labyrinth, and their steps echoed sharply, trapped between its dark walls. The high ceiling hid in shadows that crept along the barren wooden beams, only accentuating the first impression the building gave – and it was that of an old abandoned mill. It, however, didn't linger when Sephiroth strolled into the main room, ablaze with candlelight and draped in goldish colors that added a tinge of early fall, vivacity and warmth amidst the icy stillness of winter. Here and there, an acute eye could notice threadbare spots on the curtains, bare candlesticks and walls, yet it could not belie the overall impression of gaiety.

The tables were arranged in a traditional style along the walls, with the shorter side being placed on a dais to single it out. The chairs thereat were higher, with decorated backs, and one of them even bore a close resemblance to a throne. The hall was already full of guests, who were adroitly moving to and fro between the servants, exchanging smiles and sipping wine. A brief glance told Sephiroth of more than he wanted to know – of eyes turning his way, of whispering women, of their lustful and longing gazes, and jealousy. He was used to such treatment on those rare occasions he abandoned his solitary existence to the luxuries of the royal court, which resided in Paris at that time, although his father often told him he was a welcome guest.

"This way, Your Majesty," Sir Jean's voice helped him out of the reverie, and he stepped over the threshold, silken tresses catching sparks of light.

"Sephiroth Mensil, Viscount du Bugey," someone announced at once, "regent of Nevers and Flanders, and liberator of Calais."

A sigh spread through the throng. His implicit title of the French king wasn't announced, yet he was certain the rumors were afloat, and everyone in the room was aware of his bold intentions. As though a confirmation to those thoughts, when the knight passed the townspeople, backs bended and murmurs quieted down to almost deathly silence, in which it was possible to hear the rustle of the ermine cloak on the floor. Sephiroth walked slowly, each step measured and eyes riveted on the tapestries with the Calais' coat of arms. Here he was impersonal – an occasional nod to the side, a cold, polite smile, a meaningless glance, features carefully encased in stone.

"Odo IV," the voice continued announcing, "the Duke of Burgundy and Artois."

When he seated himself, all guests hurried to follow his example, including the redheaded Duke. The servant kept on introducing the arriving guests, yet nevertheless, Sir Jean announced the beginning of the feast shortly thereafter.

Sephiroth didn't know how the inhabitants of Calais managed to prepare such an exquisite meal at this time of year, when after the siege barely one day had passed. Although frugal compared to those he had seen in Paris and even at Chateau de Thil, the meal consisted of courses of fish, boar meet and bakery to one's heart content. Sir Jean only enigmatically hinted that they exerted themselves to please His Majesty. To that and the previous brief eulogy, Sephiroth raised a goblet of slightly sour and yet potable wine.

Then his gaze found Genesis, whom he hasn't spoken to since yesterday, sitting among the inhabitants of Calais. He would notice his lover everywhere just by the tiniest details that betrayed Genesis' presence to his keen gaze – from elegant gestures to streaks of auburn hair and flames in sky-blue depths. Sephiroth was so used to his lover's existence that his glance would find the redhead subconsciously, without any other need but to ascertain he was nearby. Genesis caught his eye and smirked, turning and saying something to his interlocutor on the left. The knight's gaze lingered on the smooth outline of his lover's shoulders and exposed between the auburn locks neck for another moment or so, then swept the hall and returned to his venerable ally.

"The feast is exceptional, Sir Jean," it wasn't mere politeness _ex gratia_, for baked boar meat with spices melted on his tongue and the bread was fresh from the oven.

"Wait until you try our fish, Your Majesty," replied the knight, clearly content with his simple and genuine praise, then continued enigmatically, "and get a taste of other… entertainments, if such is your desire."

It took a long moment for Sephiroth to realize that Sir Jean was talking about women. Silver eyebrows met on the bridge of patrician nose, thinning into a straight, like falcon's wings flap, line. Not that he felt that rejection of such a _generous_ offer would arouse suspicion, rather it was the displeasure at the mere thought of exchanging his loyalty to Genesis for a fleeting night with one of those women.

"Their fathers," the Duke joined their quiet conversation, "won't object, Your Majesty. Moreover, most of them will consider it an honor to please such a distinguished guest. Look at this one," Sephiroth followed Odo's glance, now blazed up with a predator's gleam, and found a girl in the light-green dress with raven-black hair tied up in a bundle. Strings of pearls curled around her slender neck, and loose black locks scattered on the boldly bared shoulders. She was young, but boldly wore no veil.

The girl immediately noticed he was looking and sent him a mincing smile, her cheeks flushing dearly although his glance hardly expressed anything but cold appraisal. He was familiar with such reaction to his attention, which always left him wondering what it was that these women coveted – his title, his looks, or the satisfaction of their own whims he never understood. He had no whims.

"I suggest we save the pleasantries for later and concentrate on the matters at hand. How did the Estates-General react to my claim?"

Sephiroth raised the goblet to his cat-slit eyes, green depths catching a ruby spark of the drink, as though mocking his interlocutors.

"Dubiously, Your Majesty, dubiously as always." The Duke replied with an inaudible sigh at the change in the conversation. "If we had your father on our side, the balance would be undoubtedly swayed to our advantage, however, currently it is almost a stalemate. The lay lords support your claim, yet the ecclesiastical… of all the nobility, you should know better than to trust the treacherous clergy. They all hope for help from Avignon and Pope Clement, now that the viper's nest is so close to Paris."

Sephiroth nodded, once again convinced that his ascension to the French throne would not be possible without laying siege to the Pope's city. The thought always troubled him, sometimes less, sometimes more, especially when he contemplated on the reasons he was so eager to abide by that promise he gave to his lover, often wondering if – more than anything else – they were personal.

Then he wondered if the mention of clergy was an innuendo at his special relationship with Genesis, whereof the Duke certainly did not know, but could suspect. The connection between them, all too palpable, was hard to overlook, especially for someone of Odo's perspicacity.

"Then you must be aware of my plans to besiege Anvignon and force the Pope into anointing me king."

"You don't have to worry about me, Your Majesty," The Duke thundered. "God is for peasants and virgin lay brothers. You ask me – there is no God besides one." He unambiguously put his hand onto the hilt of his short sword.

"And gold," remarked Sir Jean. "Yet, Your Majesty cannot rely on everyone else, for some may waver when they learn that they would be waging a war against the Pope himself."

"By the time Philip would be crushed, I do not expect to have anyone with doubts in my ranks."

"What do you have in mind, Your Majesty?"

Sephiroth swallowed another mouthful of spicy boar meat and wiped his hands on the white cloth before replying. "I plan to corner Philip before he decides to retreat back to Paris and seek refuge behind its well-fortified walls. I am certain he is aware of our plans, yet if my predictions are correct, he will at least try to stop us, somehow, ere to his retreat. I don't think he will risk leaving us freely moving from one insurgent city to another and let himself be trapped, at least not without a try. You know him better, Odo."

The Duke rubbed his beard. "No, he won't, Your Majesty. He is a coward, but he will request help from the clergy. We will have to strike before he receives an answer from the archbishop."

Their discourse was interrupted by the servants who brought steaming fish on silver dishes. Sephiroth was offered to taste it first and found the cooking art matching Sir Jean's words; Odo nodded with approval as well, having taken a gulp of wine with the delicacies.

"I think Your Majesty has already made enough mistakes," having masticated the fish, he returned to the conversation, "when you forbade me to capture Edward. It would have brought England to its knees."

"For the time being, true," Sephiroth noticed the girl was looking anew, more like shamelessly staring with that familiar spark in her eyes that reminded him of his treacherous stepmother. He suddenly felt disgusted. "But I do not wish his son, the Black Prince, to harbor grudges and hatred towards the French throne. The King alone is helpless, and if his forces are depleted, he will never dare attacking the French shores. With their current relationship with Scotland being uncertain, I do not see how the Parliament would ever agree to invade France again." He took another sip from the goblet and put it aside, feeling satiated. "When I am crowned, I will need the support of European monarchs, or at least their cold neutrality."

"What makes you think England will remain neutral, Your Majesty?"

"Fear," he replied simply.

Both Sir Jean and the Duke exchanged glances behind Sephiroth's back yet said nothing further.

In the meantime, the musicians Sir Jean invited arrived. They were from the locals mostly and could entertain them with simple music, yet to Sephiroth such trifling details were of little significance. The hall returned to life as guests were leaving the tables and gathering in the middle of the room for dances. Genesis was nowhere to be seen, lost in the turmoil, and it roused slight frustration, for he was, more than anyone else, aware of his lover's volatile temper.

Sephiroth thought he wouldn't partake in this entertainment, when the young girl in light-green dress with pale skin, now framed in the swirl of carelessly flowing, raven-black hair, came up to his chair. She dropped a curtsey and, audaciously looking into his eyes, blurted out, "You should lead the dance, Your Highness, everyone is expecting you to, and it would be my utmost honor to be your lady this evening."

Eyeing her, he thought aloofly that she was bold indeed. His grip on the stem of the goblet tightening, Sephiroth was going to refuse, but both Sir Jean and Odo gave him that silent, significant look, which only meant that he could not. Not today.

He had to win the love of his people or there would be no victory on the battlefield.

A smile touched Sephiroth's lips, yet never reached his eyes, the cat-slit pupils bathing in icebound emerald water.

"Lead, milady."

Her fingers were soft and cold, but he willfully did not look at her hands or her face, moving through the crowd of guests that parted to let him pass. The knight found the timing for this foolishness foul and was determined to be through with it as quickly as possible.

The dance began to simple folk music, him and the girl leading the rest of the pairs along the tables until, hands joined, everyone gathered in the middle of the room. They exchanged courtly bows with the neighboring nobles and townspeople, and then the circle broke again, leaving him to the mercy of the raven-haired girl anew.

"Your Highness dances charmingly," she said with a flirtatious smile, twining her hands around his neck and touching his cheek as she did so. Goldish sparks flared up on her necklace as they turned, skirts whirled, and, pretending she missed a step, the girl brushed her thigh against his. Mentally, Sephiroth rolled his eyes. Unlike many nobles, he always considered himself surprisingly insusceptible to woman's charms. The only time, he remembered, he gave into the whole atmosphere of gaiety and allowed himself to share a simple affectionate kiss with his stepmother turned out to be fraught with series of fatal misunderstandings. Not that they did not enjoy it, but it was hard for him to understand how women thought and felt, and why they ended up acting contrary to any reason.

He politely returned the smile and sent her whirling in an intricate pirouette, while she was laughing. Sephiroth did not understand how it was possible for her to be so happy just because he, a person she did not know, agreed for a simple dance.

The girl boldly placed her small hands onto his breastplate and flashed another quick, playful glance at him, her eyes aflame.

"My name is Mara," she gracefully bent her neck, moving around him now to the last echo of music. When they stopped, she clung to his fingers with her lips and held them longer than the etiquette required, so audacious, young and forthright. "Mara, your Majesty."

He escorted her to her seat and returned to his own to the ebullient ovation from the audience. The girl was immediately forgotten, her name, her raven-black hair and even the flirtations gesture, especially when he noticed that Genesis was no longer in the hall. Frowning, Sephiroth listened to Sir Jean's remarks about the dance and candid suggestions that he should consider spending the night with her, as if he had not previously made it clear that he wasn't going to indulge himself in any entertainments of that kind. The feast was slowly drawing to an end, and, anxious about whereto the redhead might have gone, the viscount decided to leave.

"Are you already leaving?" Sir Jean asked with concerned face. "Did we displease you in any way?"

"On the contrary," Sephiroth objected, "I am greatly pleased with the reception, but I have urgent duties I must attend to. My squire will accompany me," he finished, forestalling Sir Jean's intentions to offer him company.

Then he turned to say his farewells to Odo. The redheaded Duke stood surrounded by women and men, both noble and not, amusing them with quite crude jokes at the expense of current King Philip. Having been his favorite for quite a while until the battle at Crecy was lost, the Duke was privy to many details of the latter's private life. When he saw Sephiroth approach, he disengaged form the lively conversation and suddenly spoke to him.

"Perhaps, His Majesty can settle our argument. Philip – not your venerable father – unduly dismissed the value of poetry, focusing on art, and I always told him he was wrong. Tell us, do you enjoy Petrarchan sonnets, Your Majesty?" It was easy to miss the vitriolic notes in the Duke's voice, yet after spending so many months with Genesis, Sephiroth heard them. Perhaps, Odo hoped to embarrass him, hinting at his presently insignificant title, but fascination with art wasn't completely alien to him, and so he cited with a derisive tilt of his head.

"_I find no peace, and have no arms for war,__  
__and fear and hope, and burn and yet I freeze,__  
__and fly to heaven, lying on earth's floor,__  
__and nothing hold, and all the world I seize…_" In silence that ensued, he pivoted on his heels, throwing back the cascade of long, silver hair with a swift, honed wave of his wrist. "Call the arriere-ban, Odo. I expect our troops to leave Calais at dawn of the third day."

Then the viscount left the hall, his thoughts on searching for his lover.

* * *

Genesis stormed into the dark room and slammed the door behind himself with such force that dust cascaded over the doorway. Soothing darkness concealed details of the furniture, but it made no nevermind to him whereat to hide – in a small shanty or in a spacious hall. Right now he could not bare even thinking of his lover. As if being glorified and nearly worshiped by the crowd wasn't enough, Sephiroth chose to dance with that girl – hands that only touched him so shamelessly wrapped around her waist – and made sure Genesis saw it in every poignant detail.

Angered, the redhead felt a sudden, overwhelming surge to destroy _something _and hurled the chair that first happened to be within reach into the furthest corner of the room.

Genesis realized that it was best to confine himself to this room until the ire abated, for he was certain words he might later regret would be said. If only Sephiroth had enough simple human acumen to understand his desire as well…

The door creaked and, soundless as always, his lover slipped inside. Wan light from the fireplace snatched his alabaster face from the darkness, like molten gold, spilled over the polished pectoral, concluding the image of a war god. Pivoting on his heels, the redhead swore under his breath in a fit of temper.

"You left, Genesis." Sephiroth didn't question. He stated. "Why?"

"I don't wish to see you now, Sephiroth." To his surprise, his voice was smooth and calm. "Please, leave."

Emerald eyes narrowed on inflamed-in-fury sapphires. "I am not going anywhere."

"Oh, but you are, because if you aren't, every soul in this town hall is going to know that we are lovers."

"I believe you do not want that," he parried flatly and he was right, and Genesis hated it. His lover rarely lost his temper, and he often took it as a sign the viscount didn't care.

"Will you ever listen to what I am saying? Will you… will you ever care enough to listen?" The redhead almost groaned, attempting to sweep past his lover and into the salutary darkness of the hallway. Needless to say, he was stopped. "Why are you so stubborn?"

"Is my presence unpleasant to you?"

Genesis wrenched out of the firm grip on his forearm, infuriated even more – with himself, with his lover and his merits, with the whole world that branded him with the title of a monk and turned his dreams of walking with Sephiroth into the throne room unachievable.

They were born to be equal. His lover never understood that.

"It is," Genesis blurted out and watched Sephiroth pale.

"Very well."

He left the same way he came, light steps and ermine cloak rustling on the floor. His lover shouldn't have sought him in the first place, the redhead told himself as an attempt to find an excuse, yet for some reasons regret inundated him sooner than he expected. A moment later he opened wide the doors to the hallway and shouted at the knight's back, "Wait!"

Sephiroth returned, imperturbable as before, and determined to settle the argument there and then.

"I didn't come to argue, Genesis," once the door closed behind them, swallowing all sounds of their voices, his lover explained. "Understand that, please, and…" he faltered, and the next moment Genesis couldn't believe what he was hearing, "… and forgive me."

All anger dissipated with that simple genuine truth, and Genesis listlessly hung his head. "I didn't expect you to apologize, only to understand that I was angry."

"I know how all of it," Sephiroth averted his face and finished with a vague wave of his hand, taking a step to the side, "makes you feel, and you should know that if there was any way for me to make our differences less obvious, I would have done so."

The pectoral, although still enflamed with quivering red sheens, was cold underneath his fingers when Genesis pressed his whole body to his lover's. "Like this, now, it does not matter." Then shot a glance towards the window. It was already dark. "Let's go back to the Bishop's house and I will show you exactly how little it matters."

Laughter escaped Sephiroth's lips, soft and muffled, and it was the last sound Genesis heard before his lover's mouth covered his.

* * *

Alber woke up feeling dizzy. Either he had too much wine, or he was too tired, but the youth could not remember how he had dragged himself all the way from the town's hall to the quarters provided to his master by the Bishop of Calais. His memory was blank of emotions, and the events of the past couple of days resembled paintings on the walls – he saw them, yet felt strangely numb. Perhaps, the last straw was his master ordering to behead half of the English prisoners and watching them sing the lament of the doomed while their long chain neared the scaffold with a dispassionate hangman standing at the edge of the wooden platform.

They sang so beautifully, those who were condemned to death.

Later, when it was time to clothe his master for the feast, he dared asking why it was necessary to resort to such measures.

"I want them to fear me," Sephiroth replied then, and his lambent eyes darkened, "and I want them to fear me more than they do their demons and devils, imagined _ex nihilo_."

"But won't it anger them and prompt to avenge us?"

His master shrugged his finely chiseled shoulders and smiled that thin, knowing smile with just one corner of his lips.

"Therefore I ordered to execute only one half."

The words were frightening, no less than a thought that his liege was going to become the French King, which meant Alber himself was going to become a squire at the royal court. How would he, among other duties like taking care of his brother, cope with that new role? Questions, swarming his mind, bore no answers.

Jean slept peacefully by his side. His brother's pain and fever was mitigated, and with the help of the strange peasant he even stopped raving. The forlorn hope in his heart was persistently telling him Jean was getting better, but the young squire was too afraid to let it linger, afraid of being bereaved of it one day.

Having struggled out of the warm bed, the first one after Saint-Omer, Alber quickly slipped into his garments and rushed downstairs to feed his master's steed before being summoned to his bedchambers for the regular duties. Helping his liege to wash and cloth himself always felt somewhat sacred, notably since Alber was the only one entrusted with those duties and until Genesis appeared in his master's life – the only one Sephiroth kept close to himself every day.

The day promised to be cold and cloudy; groping his way in thick mist through the unfamiliar courtyard, Alber got to the stables when his feet began freezing. Loki was inside and, having awoken out of sleep, was talking to a horse as if the animal could truly understand him. When Alber dashed inside, he lapsed into silence, not that the youth felt any desire to listen to the ugly peasant.

"How is young master this morning?"

"Better," he muttered and opened the door to his master's steed. The jet-black beauty greeted him with a sniff and a sidelong glance of huge watery eyes. The youth fondly passed his hand over the glossy hair, scratched it behind the arrect ears, earning a gentle nudge on his shoulder. Smiling, he threw more grain into the feeding rack and bent down to check its hooves for damage. Slowly munching its food, the noble animal let him raise its feet one by one, used to this routine, which was needed more often after the battle, for the steed was everything to his master. Being dismounted during battle meant almost certain death even for the knight with such vast experience as his liege.

"You should hurry, young master." Loki gave him an unwinking stare that sent shivers down the youth's spine. "There is something on the square you should see."

Alber became alerted at once. "What is there, Loki?"

"Loki isn't going to tell you. Young master has to see for himself if he cares for the silver angel. Angels often bring ungodly things."

The youth dropped the hay and, feeling his stomach tighten, turned to the peasant. "And why would you even care?"

"The silver master will bring Loki to his mistress, and Loki knows that she needs him. His mistress cared about Loki, now it is his time to care about her."

Alber's eyes widened from disbelief. "My master's stepmother betrayed us."

"Betrayal… you all talk 'bout some treason. Loki only cares about his mistress, and if you care about your master in the same way, go to the market square." The peasant enigmatically finished and, waddling, strolled out into the street.

The young squire followed, his master's steed forgotten in anxiety for Sephiroth's fate, and outside the gates dashed towards the market square, frightening freezing pigeons. Sleepy sentries followed him with their tired glances.

Loki hadn't lied – there was something happening on the market square. Alber noticed the throng from the corner of a narrow, sordid alley spattered with sewage, and hurried to blend with it. Elbowing his way through the group of befuddled citizens, he finally saw the centerpiece of the commotion, which turned out to be an impossibly thin man with a tonsure on his head, clad in a dirty, gray cassock. His bony face was covered in pockmarks, yellow skin fitting close to hollow cheeks, and from underneath the thin eyebrows, dark eyes looked at the world with unconcealed spite. Shaking his crooked finger, the ugly monk was preaching in a rasping voice.

"'…all things are naked and open in Thy sight, and Thou seest all things, and nothing can hide itself from Thee. Thou seest what they hath done, who hath taught all unrighteousness on earth.' Then said the Most High, the Holy and Great One: 'Go to Noah and tell him in my name "Hide thyself!" and reveal to him the end that is approaching: that the whole earth will be destroyed, and a deluge is about to come upon the whole earth, and will destroy all that is on it.'" The monk neared the end of the dais often used for the scaffold and stretched his arms towards the gathering. "The Lord our God shall not tolerate the ungodly, those who defied his will and his word. He shall strike with fire and brimstone, and your blood and the blood of your children, and their children will flood the cities. He shall come in all His might against those who once dared to oppose Him. Look at yourself! Look at what you are doing, giving shelter to the ungodly! You were given one and only king, chosen to be the vicar to deliver the will of the Most High!"

Rare voices filled the air, timidly supporting the zealous monk, however, most of the crowd remained gloomy and silent. Then a shout rang, "Your king did nothing when we starved!"

The monk lifted his hands high into the air. "God told us to be humble and bear our suffering silently, waiting for the glorious Day of his coming and judgment. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, speaking against Him and His chosen people, and condoning this sinner's presence, for while he is enjoying your hospitality, the Devil works through him, tempting you with sweetness of false delusions. Beware of idols, He said, of false prophets and kings, for they will bring death..."

Alber wasn't listening any longer, catching last words as he was leaving the market square. And while the crowd didn't seem to be swayed by this preacher's venomous words, his master still needed to know that – it appeared so – the French King attempted to strike back.

* * *

* _The Book of Enoch_ – part of the teachings that neither Christians nor Jews acknowledge as a part of Bible. Includes stories about the fall of angels and Enoch's personal discourse with God.


	38. Chapter XXXVII: Martyr and his faith

_**A/N: **_Listening to Clint Mansell - '_Death is the road to Aw_e'. Chapter beta'ed by AlexJ69 (thank you!).

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, exaudi vocem meam (lat.) - _Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord: Lord, hear my voice.

_In Domino laudabitur anima mea (lat.) - _In the Lord my soul will rejoice.

* * *

_**Chapter XXXVII.**_

_**Martyr and his faith.**_

"_Faith must be enforced by reason. When faith becomes blind, it dies."(Unknown author)._

Pallor was blending with whiteness of pillows. Silver rain of weightless tresses scattered on bare shoulders. Eyes sparkled with irrepressible - as the world itself - thirst to live. Pale dawn stretched its arms through the lancet window, and Sephiroth happened to lie in the middle of a narrow beam of light. The redhead wondered if his lover was – even if subconsciously – flaunting his natural beauty in such an unpretentious manner; beauty that needed no tawdry toys, like jewelry, to look breathtaking.

"Sephiroth," Genesis covered a yawn with one hand, reaching to throw the knight's loose undershirt with another. "You are sleeping late today, and your minions, I am certain, are tired of waiting."

Sephiroth slowly raised himself on one elbow and threw the garments over his broad shoulders, tying the laces with several quick, efficient moves of his deceptively slender fingers. A smile on his lips was the only answer to the redhead's forthright remark. Delicate smile. Mocking.

"Where is Alber?"

"I have not the slightest idea." Genesis neared the window with the view of the Bishop's courtyard down below, powdered with snow and marred by a narrow chain of footprints. The view was nostalgic, reminiscent of long winter nights he spent in monastic cells, fighting himself and his madness, just a thin-edged line of a wooden piece being the much talked-about mete, beyond which… No one knew what was beyond it. "Ah, here he is…" The redhead finished when the familiar silhouetted, wearing his lover's colors, slipped through the gates. For a moment Alber stopped in the middle of the courtyard, looking bewildered, then dashed towards the entrance door.

"Call him, please, I need to get dressed." Sephiroth threw the blanket aside, revealing a crease on white sheet whereat a few minutes back Genesis lay nestled up to his lover, looking at the features of uncanny beauty that never ceased astonishing him. Perhaps, the knight's face haunted him since that first meeting six years ago without him being aware of it.

"How can I forget," the redheaded monk couldn't forbear from teasing his forbidden lover, "that you cannot get dressed without someone's help? You are worse than a child."

"Humph, is it supposed to amuse me?" Contradicting his own words, Sephiroth sounded amused and looked such, even if all the signs of amazement were his narrowed eyes and slightly upturned corners of perfectly shaped lips.

"Tell me you are not."

Sephiroth didn't have time to reply, because the door to their room swung open, and Alber rushed through it, having tripped over the threshold and retained his balance only by a miracle.

"Messire," the youth hastily kneeled by his lover's bedside, "I have bad news."

Genesis was always amazed watching his lover transform from being lax to self-disciplined and taut, from a person no different than any other to a cold commander, one of the best to have walked on the French soil.

"Continue," he dropped the word like a stone, hastily clothing himself as Alber spoke.

"There is a monk preaching in the market square, and he speaks badly of you and your intentions to become a king, messire. The crowd is still small, but I thought that castigation of that kind might damage your reputation."

"You have done well," already dressed and girded with a sword, Sephiroth put his gloves on and gestured to the door. "You are coming with me."

Was it possible to deny that commanding gaze?

Genesis submissively sighed and followed his lover and master into the dark hallway.

On the street, it was colder than the redhead imagined by looking out of the window. November was mild this year, and the change felt sudden, as if the skies got tired of being clement and released their suppressed discontent, having lavishly dusted the city with snow. The air was fresh and burnt his lungs every time he took a deep breath, nipping at his bare skin and getting into his garments through thick layers of warm cloth.

The slums flung the odor of stale fish.

Sephiroth ordered a dozen of sentries to follow him, therefore they appeared on the square in a rather impressive entourage. Commoners recoiled from them, parted to let the multi-colored steel wedge pass, creating whirls and waves in the vociferous gathering. His lover let the knights force their way through the throng, having deigned them with just one regal look whereafter turned his eyes to the lanky figure of a monk. Genesis saw many monks during the years spent with the Dominican brethren – pious monks, mad monks, venal and lewd monks – but the monk on the dais was certainly one of the ugliest. He couldn't quite put a finger on what in that bony face made him cringe inside and at the same time filled his heart with a long-forgotten thirst to avenge. It no longer bore much significance who to avenge, because the Church had to suffer a thousand fold compared to how much he once had.

In the meantime, Sephiroth, having ordered the sentries to form a protective semicircle around the scaffold, adroitly jumped on the wooden dais. His appearance didn't pass unheeded, and a long sigh spread quickly through the throng. White in his fluttering ermine cloak, he easily attracted gazes and after yesterday's procession, at least a half of those present at the square knew who the knight was. Genesis glimpsed at a short man who stood to his right, craning his neck to get a better view of what was happening at the dais above his tall neighbor's shoulders.

When the viscount cropped up before him, the monk lapsed into awkward silence, having hidden behind a shoddy mask of piety; a sham one, for wherefrom he stood, the redhead could see spite sparkling in his dark eyes.

"I hope messire knows what he is doing," Alber elbowed his way to the scaffold as well, paying no heed to quiet curses and shouts following him when he painfully shoved curious gapers with his shoulders or stepped on their feet. To be on the safe side, Genesis chose a spot so that he would be able to intervene in case something went wrong. Even with a person as level-headed as Sephiroth, no one could be certain of the outcome, notably if he had a brand affixed to his belt.

"Let us hope together," Genesis quietly replied.

"I heard you were spreading ill rumors, holy man," Sephiroth began, and the address became insulting in his mouth. Genesis sighed. His lover was always straightforward even when lies were needed. The gathering froze when the deep alluring voice rang, then swayed towards the platform under pressure of the back rows.

"Get thee gone, Satan!" The monk squealed, goggling at the tall figure clothed in white. "Get thee gone, devil incarnate, hell's spawn, our perdition!"

Genesis could not see a deep frown on his lover's face, yet his displeasure lucidly rang in the curt reply, "You leave me no choice but to confine you to prison."

"You cannot do that!" The old monk triumphantly exclaimed, shaking his fist. "God will not let you jeer at His humble servant." Yet, when Sephiroth took a step forward, the fervent preacher mirrored the knight's movement backwards. "Good people of Calais! Here is a vicious violator of the holy law, the reprobate who dared to lift his hand against the legitimate king."

If the rabble-rouser hoped for a response to his exclamations, Genesis had to admit he would not get any, for the citizens of Calais remained silent.

"Your king is a fool if he sent you here, truly hoping that here and now, when a decision had to be made, words would outweigh the deeds. If you leave now, I will allow you to convey this message to your master."

"My God is my master whom I serve first and foremost," pompously echoed the preacher. "I came on His behalf."

Sephiroth was obviously displeased. Genesis could see it, a trenchant line of thin lips pressed together, however, that was not the only sign of his lover's indignation. Slowly, yet noticeably to the redhead, his hand slipped underneath the ermine cloak, fingers tightly twining around the hilt of his blade.

"Whether your words are lies, meant to deceive me, or the truth, it makes no difference." The viscount raised his voice. "Whether you serve Philippe or not, I will not let you confuse anyone or bemire my name without punishment."

It seemed the monk was ready to counter every single one of his lover's arguments.

"Good people of Calais! Look, who you chose to trust, a silver-haired abomination from a demon's womb, a bastard, for who else – but Satan – could have begotten such a progeny?"

Murmurs arose in the shoal - this time the monk's words managed to sow distrust among his flock. With a faint clang, his lover's bastard sword flit out of sheath, having caught a cold sunray as its tip froze mere inches from the old man's bobbing Adam's apple. To his right, Alber let out a frightened sigh.

"Do _not _dare mention my mother."

When he heard Sephiroth's low voice, Genesis knew it was his time to intervene, or, enraged with the insults to his true mother he never knew, his lover would kill the old man whereat he stood; and while the fate of this fanatic bothered him little, the fate of the knight was of much more concern. It took him a moment – the same moment when Sephiroth's sword froze in indecision before lunging for the monk's throat – to jump onto the dais and calmly put his palm onto the cruciform guard.

He remembered that the people were still watching and bowed before speaking.

"Your Majesty, I ask you for this… scoundrel's life." Genesis was one among the few who could meet the icy-cold glare of those almond-shaped eyes without flinching or looking down.

"Genesis, not now." Was the quiet, angry reply.

In the mean time, the old monk didn't waste any time and readily moved away to the opposite side of the scaffold, as far from the keen tip of the bastard sword as possible. The redhead shot a curt glance at him to ascertain the latter would not flee.

"And what do you think you are doing, Sephiroth?"

"I am not going to allow this monk - or anyone for that matter - ruin what I had conceived in three months after my defeat at Crecy."

"I understand, but if you kill him now," Genesis dropped his hands, as if explaining something so obvious was onerous, "you will create a martyr out of him in those people's eyes; a martyr who died for a righteous cause. Do you truly want that?"

For a moment, Sephiroth's features softened from internal doubt, but he didn't demur for long.

"I can't let him live and continue spreading these disparaging lies," he declared firmly and moved past the redhead.

"All right," Genesis hissed after his stubborn lover, "I will do it." These words finally had an effect on him as Sephiroth halted, tip of the bastard sword set against the wooden platform. "But I will do it furtively, where there will be _no_ witnesses."

"Humph, no witnesses?" A distinctively displeased voice rang from underneath the veil of silver tresses. "I cannot risk your life for something so insignificant…"

People, he reminded himself. People were still watching.

"You risk your life every time you battle for both of us." He objected in a whisper. "And nothing will happen to me if this time I will contend for our cause."

"You won't…"Sephiroth tried to make his words sound like an order, but the redhead knew he was the only one capable of disobeying the future king without punishment.

"There is no safer way to end his useless life, and, besides, I am going to enjoy it."

Azure eyes sparked up with wild, almost forgotten joy.

For a moment they stood frozen, seeing only each other, and it was Sephiroth who gave up first, shifting his gaze towards the thick shroud of clouds.

"Then do so."

The crowd parted silently, like turbid waves, cut by a prow of a ship, and closed in behind him, voraciously swallowing last silver sparks.

Genesis stood on the dais for a few more moments, then plunged into the swashing multi-colored sea to follow the figure of a scrawny monk.

* * *

Sephiroth often wondered what power Genesis had over him that made him surrender to his lover's reasoning so easily. One moment, the viscount was certain he was going to kill the monk, and the next - walking away through the crowd, and the incoherent curses the preacher was uttering shattered against his rigid back. Perhaps, Genesis was right and killing the monk in front of people would damage the state of their affairs, yet the explanation still did not bereave him of all doubts. The beauty of Genesis' burning eyes must have played its part in his decision as well.

Lost in thought, Viscount du Bugey didn't remember how and when he reached the Bishop's house. Alber obediently followed him without asking needless questions just as he had been taught. The snow ceased falling, and footprints, together with black thawing strips, streaked its immaculate carpet. Houses looked dreary, and only the occasional width still hung from windows - a sodden and fading reminder of yesterday's celebration.

Having left the guards outside the gates to the Bishop's residence, Sephiroth was met by the Duke's retinue in the courtyard and by Odo himself in the hallway. Discarding the heavy ermine cloak on the go and accepting bows, the viscount led his guest into the study and offered a seat.

"The Bishop's doorkeeper told me you left, Your Majesty."

Sephiroth glanced his ally over, and the Duke's clean-shaven face caught his attention. He looked younger, and the knight wondered whether this change had anything to do with the entertainments Odo was so willing to partake in last night.

"There was a monk preaching on the market square," Sephiroth halted by the window and crossed his arms over his chest. "He proved to be a certain problem."

"A problem?" The Duke asked again. "What kind of problem?"

"Of the worst kind. Ideological."

"Those damn fanatics! Crawling around like earthworms, wiggling through the smallest of holes. You behead it, and its body is still crawling." Having lost his temper, Odo slammed his fist against the mahogany table. "They are worse than the plague, I say."

"It will be dealt with," Sephiroth returned curtly, as if the matter was a simple misconduct among the pages and the culprit would get off with a couple of weals. A stray snowflake landed on the heated glass and immediately turned into a clear globule of water.

"I don't understand, Your Majesty. Calais always was a refuge for the independent minds, and heresy wasn't uncommon among my vassals. My city is a port, after all, a gate into Europe - England, Spain, Italy; you reach Calais, board a ship and you are free."

"He claims he had nothing to do with Philippe, if that is what you want to know."

"Does it change anything?"

"No. It doesn't." Sephiroth tore his gaze away from the bell towers of the church and turned, having leaned against the windowsill. A wave of silver covered his shoulders, blending with the color of snow on the roofs of houses. "Where is Sir Jean?"

"In the armory. He proclaimed the arriere-ban as you ordered yesterday and now accepts the arriving troops."

"Then this is where we should be."

Odo shook his head. "Our presence is not urgent, for I trust his abilities. We can go later and inspect the troops - it will be enough. The French king, however, will not wait."

Viscount du Bugey pondered over the Duke's words and agreed - the armory could wait. There were more pressing matters, among which king Philippe de Valois was the top priority.

"I was thinking about creating a trap for him." After the defeat of the Englishmen, Sephiroth felt he could be completely honest with his ally, and - as if to corroborate his thoughts - Odo met his piercing glare without flinching. "If we divide our troops, we can send the smaller part to surround the main encampment from the north and, forcing the King to abandon his position blindly, lure him into the trap, where the larger part of our forces would be waiting."

"We could, but why do it with such intricacy, milord? A direct attack…"

"This is what he expects us to do," Sephiroth mused quietly. "I could not stop thinking about it. Now he feels he has an advantage, he feels strength, Odo, and therefore we do not have to fear any sudden decisions. If we attack directly, we will most likely crush his forces, but Philippe might abscond to Paris. Back at Chateau de Thil, when I first thought of a plan to claim the throne, I spent two nights over the map of Paris and had to admit that to take the capital, we would need a much larger force than is currently at our disposal."

"Which means…"

"Our only chance is to defeat him now with one swift strike. Later, the only way out is by laying siege to Avignon, but with Philippe lodged in the capital _persuading_ the Pope will be more difficult. And if the Parisians don't accept me as their King, the national split might result in a long-term civil war."

The Duke nodded, "If only someone with your prowess led the Frenchmen at Crecy, the English would be put to rout before September."

"Humph, then I did not ask to lead. They only had to listen to me once… at least once."

Sephiroth closed his eyes, remembering, seeing… Overwhelming heat, sweat dripping down his forehead, arrows, flying through the mist and hazy expanse of green fields turning murrey from pain. His fists clenched, knuckles paling from strain. The French nobles betrayed him then, and their betrayal would not be forgotten and left unpunished. His ally's voice helped him out of the painful reverie.

"The only part of your plan that worries me, Your Majesty, is dividing our forces."

It worried him, too, but, being the architect of this scheme, he saw advantages the Duke did not.

"If we split, it will reassure the king that he could still win. Let's hope that when he understands he cannot, it will be already too late."

Odo's lips curved into a wry smirk, but straightened when his gaze found Sephiroth who still stood, reclining against the windowsill in an immutable pose - arms and legs crossed - like a statue chiseled from marble.

"There is something else I have to mention, Your Majesty." The silver head turned, that being the only sign Sephiroth showed he had heard the Duke. "We are alone now, and I feel compelled to mention that your behavior at the feast and heretofore creates rumors. They are only seeds of vacillation, however, I would not wish to see the roots of doubt grow deep into the minds of your faithful vassals."

The viscount understood what his ally was alluding to at once, but the comprehension did not wish to sink in until, feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of inexpressive eyes, Odo finally finished.

"Some started talking that Your Majesty prefers a company of a monk to a company of a woman."

* * *

Genesis had to wait nine hours before an opportunity to kill the monk presented itself.

The snow resumed falling again, turning into a continuous glistening veil of huge flakes. Whirling, they bravely landed onto the ground underneath people's feet, who trampled them into the dirty, thawing streamlets, each a nameless sacrifice so small and yet, having united, they soon wrapped the whole city in a pristine, white blanket. Freezing, the old monk found a shelter at a port tavern, a small greasy room filled with returning fishermen, sailors, and generally rude folk of low social origins. The smell of fish became stronger, almost unbearable to the refined creature Genesis allowed himself to become with his lover.

Sitting in the corner, the redhead endured hours of torment, of which the smell soon became the most bearable part. The monk decided to entertain the habitués with stories about his exploits on the market square earlier in the morning. The subject of their jeers was Sephiroth, and each time his lover's name rang followed by a burst of guffaw, the redhead's fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger with more force. The monk called his lover a demonic child, a wretched soul, a reprobate, and those Sephiroth liberated just a day ago obsequiously laughed at the preacher's words, drinking beer and wiping foam off their lips with greasy sleeves.

'_Worthless fanatics_,' he thought with hatred.

However, grateful citizens finally protested, and there would have been a brawl if the tavern-keeper didn't hurl them out into the street. Genesis had to leave in order not to lose the bony figure in the quickly approaching night and thick veil of falling snow.

Cursing men and exalting God at the top of his voice, the old monk dragged his feet towards the center of the city, and like his second shadow, Genesis followed behind. They didn't get far, however, when the hapless preacher decided to wend his way back to the strait once more. From time to time, the vesper silence was torn by his wails, "_De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, exaudi vocem meam_…" or, "_In Domino laudabitur anima mea_…" and then it seemed that even the snowflakes shunned him. At first, women and children glanced back at the quirky old man in a long cassock, yet as it became darker, they met fewer people on the streets, and Genesis started thinking that the time had come. It was getting colder as well, and the monk could disappear in one of the huts any minute.

The port areas of the city were notable for the labyrinth of narrow dirty streets where even one, who spent a whole life in Calais, could get lost. Brothels abutted on the cheap taverns, penury vied with disease, and filth - with rats. A few times Genesis came across their lifeless bodies, like dark spots standing out on the thickening white carpet. The old monk passed three or four of those streets, each time choosing the right turn on the crossroads, until the steel-gray band of strait sparked in the distance. The preacher headed for the shore, befuddling the redhead with his intentions, yet Genesis decided against wasting any more time. His lover was probably worried by now.

They descended lower, getting closer and closer to the port whereat small fishermen's hovels huddled together so closely as if they were no less cold than the redhead. The gentle swashing of heavy waves against stones reached Genesis' ears, an alluring siren's song, shrouded in weightless - like his lover's hair - silver veil of snow.

Genesis passed his hand over his auburn hair, straightening frozen tresses and shaking off rime. Like before, he was silently slipping between huts, hiding in every shadow as he moved from one wall to another, overtaking his prey. A dagger flared up in his clenched hand, cold as the scenery around him, and his heart fluttered in his chest from anxiety.

The monk felt something the last moment that separated Genesis from his deadly jump; having halted, he turned his head and noticed a chain of footsteps on the snow. The snow, the white, perfect snow betrayed Genesis. The man in the frock paled and suddenly broke into a run, having picked up the long flaps of his cassock. With a quiet curse Genesis leapt out of the darkness that till now safely concealed him and dashed after his prey.

The bony monk turned out to be nimble when he sensed his life was in danger, having offered more resistance than younger opponents in his place would, but finally Genesis had him cornered to a wall of a hut. He tried to scream, yet the sound was cut off by a ruthless palm pressed to his lips. Hot, quickened breath burnt Genesis' freezing hand, and a wave of bodily fear from the old man's eyes poured over him. Gaunt hands clutched the redhead's slender shoulders.

"_Gloria Patri… et… Filio…_ "the preacher's wizen face lost all color as he forced the muffled prayer and then…

"For God so loved the world," Genesis whispered and gently passed his dagger over the monk's throat, feeling scarlet moist running along his skin and scorching his numb fingers; feeling the essence of life reviving him. The redhead's heart was beating louder than drums in his chest, as if seeking escape. Choking, the monk was goggling at him, reminding him of a fish washed up on the shore - eyes wide, aghast, mouth moving to struggle between uttering incoherent prayers and catching slipping air. Yellowish skin was turning pale.

For God loved the world with all His inhuman passion and mind, loved so avidly that He did not understand when love became too strong; when it learned how to destroy.

When its dark twin-sister, hatred, learned to create.

What did it mean to hate? What did it mean to love? In the end they were one and the same. Emotion. Weakness? Strength? Genesis never knew. Genesis never asked, and the truth…

The truth was a word scorched on a small wooden sliver.

Escaping his grasp, three droplets of blood landed on the virgin-white linen. Taking a step back, the redhead gently lowered the dead body onto the ground and leaned it against the wall of an abandoned hut. Another small step backwards, and the ugly old monk looked like he was peacefully sleeping, his left hand resting on the prayer beads, his right - uncurled by his side. Having pondered whether he should leave his prey like that, the redhead found a flat part of the fishermen's boat and gathered enough snow to cover the dead body.

When Genesis left, only a small white hump remained near the hut, and even it was slowly blending with the shimmering curtain of heartless white flakes.

* * *

The armory was old and unused for at least a decade. Long, fluttering in rare whiffs of wind, ghostly tresses of cobwebs hung from the ceiling, overgrown with mold and blackened with smoke from the nearby smithy. Warmth rarely penetrated the basement, and moss abundantly covered its stony walls. Against the obsolete background, the newly cut weapon racks stood out strikingly, flinging the smell of fresh pine, which blended with the aromas of fir-needles lying thick on the floor.

Sephiroth stepped inside and shook the snow off the ermine cloak. His spurs clanged on the stone as he neared the group of men who broke their lively conversation at the sight of him approaching.

"Your Majesty," Sir Jean de Vienne took a step forward, "the troops are ready to leave Calais in a day as you have ordered."

"I appreciate the effort," the illegitimate heir to the French throne politely inclined his head. Flames from the fireplace sparked on the ashen locks bestrewn with thawed snowflakes. "Were the smiths able to finish their work on time?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Sir Jean pointed towards the weapon racks where Sephiroth noticed rows of polished short swords and axes. "They worked all day and night to whet them and clean from rust, but we still didn't have enough for those who desired to join us. We used the Englishmen's armor and weapons."

Sephiroth nodded, running his fingers along the sharp edge of the nearest sword. His presence in the armory was unnecessary, but he hoped a little trick he thought of before would work and for the time being stop the _undesirable _rumors from spreading among his loyal vassals.

The thought was ingenious, the timing - perfect; the day after tomorrow they will leave Calais and, likely, he will never set foot on its soil again. After that, none of his close allies will have time to think about a woman and even less time to pry whether he had been with one.

And Genesis… Genesis will understand.

"I am very pleased with the discipline in Calais. I cannot say I expected such devotion."

"Circumstances forced us, Your Highness, grim circumstances. We were ready to battle Edward, had he breached our defenses, with available troops, however little they were. Then even this old armory was of use to us."

She couldn't have chosen a better moment to enter. Vibrant and smiling, Mara, the girl he met at the feast yesterday, was like a breath of fresh air in the murky dungeon. Rosy cheeks, raven-black hair, dusted with snow, and a gaze directed to him only – she could not have made a more stunning appearance. She reminded the knight of his stepmother or, rather, of a woman she once had been, but the reminiscence did not linger.

"Your Majesty," she dropped a curtsey.

"What a pleasant surprise, Mara!" Sir Jean's face broke into a wide smile. "What good wind brings you here?"

"His Majesty sent for me an hour ago, asked to meet him here when he would be done with his duties."

"So you changed your mind."

"It appears so." Sephiroth replied to Sir Jean's words, hiding a cold glint by dropping his eyes to the floor.

"Then I won't keep you any longer." There was a hint of _understanding_ in the last words. "Have a good… evening, Your Majesty."

After the befitting farewells, when they were leaving, Sephiroth made sure every gaze was riveted on both of them, so that tomorrow new rumors would spread, supplanting the old ones about his close relationship with Genesis.

Outside, his sentries were freezing on the empty street, wrapped up in thick mantle of snow. Having gestured towards their temporary residence, Sephiroth silently walked to the nearest crossroads, unconcerned whether his guest was able to keep up with his long strides. His hair trailed him in a glistening halo, blending with the veil of snow until it was impossible to tell the swarming flakes from the cascade of locks.

Mara was the first one to break the silence.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

He turned and, keeping his face shrouded in short silver tresses, inquired to keep up the conversation. "What?"

"The snow." The raven-haired girl began to whirl, then suddenly dropped to the ground and scooped a handful of white fluff, making a snowball. "When I was younger, we played this game all the time. Now… now is different; now mother says I am too old and have to learn the mannerism of a true lady. But I…" She threw a ball into the signboard of a baker and laughed as her creation cascaded down in a myriad of flakes. "I don't want to. I want to be free. Do you not want to be free, Your Majesty, free like the wind and the song of stars?"

"Humph, hardly," he nevertheless smiled. Her poetic mood reminded him of Genesis; his redhead was somewhere in the city, looking for the old monk, maybe, even dealing the fatal blow at this very moment; when he returned to the Bishop's residence, Genesis might be already waiting for him.

Sephiroth bent and, obeying a sudden urge, plunged his hands into the snowdrift between two houses. By the time he straightened, the small snowball has melted and trickled down his long fingers.

"You look too thoughtful, Your Majesty. You looked like that at the feast, as if you are always thinking of something. What is on your mind now?"

Sephiroth shook off the last droplets and hid his hand in the pocket. Genesis and his victory - thereof he thought always, yet aloud he said nothing.

They reached the Bishop's house in silence.

Alber met him inside to take away his cloak, and from his squire the knight learned that there had been no news about Genesis. There were no reasons to worry yet, but the ominous feeling that this time something had finally gone wrong did not want to leave the knight. Sephiroth began to regret the rash decision to let Genesis deal with that monk alone. He could have sent Alber with him, a belated thought came to his mind, a lingering, gnawing worm of remorse. The fanatics were like earthworms, he suddenly remembered words from his early conversation with the Duke, yet instantly dismissed the thought.

Mara didn't notice the change in his mood even when, unable to suppress the anxiety for the redhead, he slammed the door of his room. Thereat, Sephiroth forced himself to settle down in the chair and focus on the girl who halted by the window, silently awaiting his move. Viscount du Bugey only hoped she would comply with his request peacefully.

When Mara caught his glance, she flashed a winsome smile at him and - as if involuntarily – loosened the dark-blue dress on her shoulder. There was something repelling in the readiness she was offering herself with, but above all emotions, Sephiroth felt cold, lurking in depth of his soul, ire. Regaining composure with some effort, he placed a small purse on the table and unbound the laces. Gold dimly sparked when he opened it widely for the girl to see.

"Ten golden livres will suffice for your troubles." With a fastidious grimace he tied it up and stared back at Mara. "I also expect you to keep the nature of our meeting secret."

Mara innocently blinked, dark, downy eyelashes descending upon her bright eyes and then flushing as if in fright.

"I don't understand, Your Majesty. Didn't you invite me in… for the whole night?"

"It concerns me not whether you stay or leave. Choose a comfortable room to your liking, but I am not sleeping with you if that was your question."

"But I don't need money… I came here willingly, for it is my desire to… to please Your Majesty…"

"Mara," he repeated slowly, wearily, "this is what I want everyone to think, and you are going to help me. Take the money and, whenever asked, tell how wonderfully I… I _entertained_ you. This is a fair deal."

"Your Majesty, you are worried over something, and I can help you forget about it."

Sephiroth abruptly tossed his head, left corner of his lips twitching. With all her charm, Mara would not be able to make him forget about Genesis and lessen his anxiety even if rationally it was too early to feel it.

"We are leaving Calais soon; yes, I am worried, but my matters are not of your concern either."

Suddenly he wanted the raven-haired girl to vanish, but his words had an opposite effect; she didn't seem offended or befuddled when circled his chair to place both of her palms onto his shoulders. Her laughter, carefree like a sunlight spot on the spring grass, touched his ears.

"I promise – Your Highness will not regret."

Sephiroth did not flinch; her presence was undesirable, infringing upon what he had always cherished – his solitude. Coldly he shook her persistent fingers off his cotardie and rose before she decided to tempt him further. He would have left, but before that he needed to make sure the disobedient girl was going to play the role he asked her to play.

"You will please me most by leaving."

Finally, she seemed to understand. "You… you did not desire me, but I thought yesterday…"

How could he explain it better without reducing her to tears?

"Here, I thought up of something," Sephiroth extended her a book, which she accepted with a pleading look on her face. It was wasted on him. "Read to me. Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep; and when I do, you are free to do as you wish."

Mara's face fell, but she obediently opened the book and began reading. Sephiroth fell asleep when one candle melted into a spot of liquid wax and Alber quietly slipped inside to replace it. The raven-haired girl left an hour later, when the bells rang twelve times, carrying ten livres in her pocket and the memories of the strangest night in her life; memories of falling snow, of blurring lines on the vellum pages and of an angel sleeping light in semi-darkness, his breath shallow and black lashes trembling each time she shifted in her seat. Memories of the strangest man who never wanted more of her than to read him a book.

When Sephiroth woke up, the dawn painted the clouds in light gray, but there were still no signs of Genesis.

* * *

Void. Despair. Nothingness.

Tender hands were carrying her, pushing her up, towards the pale-gold light, but at the very moment she was ready to embrace it, one of those gentle hands would always drag her down.

Despair. Void. Emptiness.

Marguerite sat up on the bedding and wiped a thin, viscid trickle of slime, which ran down her chin. Time blended into eternity, and only somewhere in the back of her head the voice still existed, like last droplets of reality.

Son. Lover. Sinner.

If Marguerite spoke, she would stammer. Speaking coherently required more and more effort every time, yet she managed to whisper the name, which once was more than her life and now remained less than a sound on her lips.

"Sephiroth…"

_If whatever you have just said was true… I don't understand your motive, woman. He is your son…_

Son. Lover. Enemy…

There was no motive. All she did was thoughtless, purposeless, meaningless. Even she… she was no more.

Somewhere outside her marquee there was Lorenzo, there was the King, there was a design to crush her stepson's rebellion without shedding a drop of French blood. Those plans were already set in motion and people were chosen to execute them. Outside her prison something still existed, but inside there was only emptiness.

Son. Lover. Sinner.

A foreign laugh rang in the room, and it took her a minute to realize it was her own.

Wait. She had to wait.


	39. Chapter XXXVIII: To hell and below, I

_**A/N: **_Thanks to my wonderful beta, AlexJ69, yet again!

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipoténtem, factorem cali et terra, visibílium ómnium et invisibílium. (lat.) - _I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.

* * *

_**Chapter XXXVIII.**_

_**To hell and below.**_

_**Part I.**_

_"Each of us bears his own hell." (Virgil)._

Genesis woke up from the icy touch of wind, which blew through the chinks in the walls of an unfamiliar marquee. Without opening his eyes, he lay still, trying to remember what had happened. His hands were tied behind his back, ropes painfully cutting into his numbing skin, and something sticky and cold stained his cheek. It smelled of blood.

The redhead's last reminiscence was a streak of lightning in the back of his head, a spring Firebird in the pale wintry skies, and then he was falling into the bottomless well. No matter how hard Genesis strained his memory, there was nothing beyond it or before. He was walking somewhere, trying to warm his hands, because not long before that he was gathering snow to conceal something… someone…

Then the world fell upon him in a waterfall of scattered memories – of the battle at the walls of Calais, of smiling Sephiroth, of monk's blood, seeping through his fingers – and Genesis moaned.

"He is awake," immediately, a voice rang from behind, hasty shuffling of feet following. "Impart the news to the king at once."

'What king?' The redhead wanted to ask, but in time understood the futility of such question. There was only one king France knew, and Sephiroth wasn't anointed yet. The state of his matters had to be deplorable, the denouement of this misfortune – a question. But how… Then it dawned upon him; Sephiroth's stepmother, of whom everyone had forgotten, betrayed them, and he was paying the price for his own carelessness. What a ruthless irony.

With ostensible obedience Genesis sat up from the awkward position, fighting fear and a nauseating sensation in his stomach from the heavy blow he took. His head was splitting, tears welling in his eyes as he moved, crippled by excruciating pain, which seemed to nestle in every bone and joint of his body. Yellow lilies, discolored by frequent autumn storms and recent snowfalls, floated vaguely before the redhead's eyes, refusing to gain more lucid contours even after he blinked. Having melted, a droplet of blood rolled down his cheek, landing on his lips, and Genesis avidly licked them to feel the copper taste in his mouth.

He was thrown onto the pile of hard furs and left alone, although a shadow of a sentry loomed outside; he was stomping on the ground to keep himself warm, humming a French ditty.

"…_Et pais querir, oubeir  
Doubter, servir, et honnourer  
Vous vueil jusques au morir…"_

Despair clenched Genesis' throat. Did the imprisonment mean he had lost; lost when he was closer to the pinnacle of his triumph than he had ever been in his entire life? Would they dare kill him, knowing that Sephiroth… Sephiroth…

His lover's name was a painful echo in his chest; the reminiscence – a striking image of Sephiroth watching the sunset with that strange expression etched onto his features as if he was seeing something else – a malevolent pain of a different kind than in his smarting wound. How had he been captured like a fool, like an innocent child? Why did he put his lover before the very choice the latter asked him not to – a choice between keeping their love and claiming the French throne?

If his hands were not tied, Genesis would have bitten his knuckles.

The crunch of stamped snow interrupted his pointless self-torture. Several people were nearing his prison, exchanging loud remarks, as though arguing. The canopy, covering the entrance, quivered, and the sentry stepped aside with a deep bow to let a man in. His interlocutors remained outside.

He was dressed in a military manner, simply, yet with distinctive signs of high rank and royalty; his somewhat noble visage, framed in a thin beard and long, reaching his shoulders, black hair, bore clear signs of struggles and age, yet little volition. He was short, but a pale shade of Sephiroth's impressive height and imperial bearing, and lacked attractiveness or even simple charm. The redhead doubted he would outstrip Viscount du Bugey in sharpness of wit and courage.

For the first time Genesis came face to face with Philippe de Valois, the king of France, however, made no attempt to bow or express veneration in any other way. The redhead never adulated Sephiroth, who deserved such praise a lot more than the current monarch, and he would not humiliate himself in front of an enemy.

The king withered him and with his hands in his pockets paced up and down the marquee. Then, having waved his arm towards the entrance, loudly proclaimed, "Call for Marguerite."

Sephiroth's stepmother appeared at once, having slipped into the marquee like a shadow. With bags under her lackluster eyes and white streaks in her tangled hair, she looked ten years older than the woman Genesis saw one spring day. The man's outerwear could not conceal her leanness and dithering in the baggy cotardie shoulders. Her sallow skin glistened in wan light, and emaciated face woke pity instead of once deserved admiration or desire. Nine months had passed since then, a quick, poignant dream when it was over, but while it lasted, each moment seemed longer than the lifetime. Then Genesis lived without much thought or regret and kissed Sephiroth every time like they had an immeasurable eternity ahead of them.

When Marguerite saw the redheaded monk, she clasped her hands to her chest, as though she couldn't breathe.

"Is it him?" The king's question was futile, for the answer was openly displayed across the mad woman's face.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good." The French king contentedly nodded several times. "He certainly doesn't look like a priest, but if you spoke the truth and he calumniates the sacred name of God by sleeping with another man, then I am not surprised. Yet, a dirty peasant is a dirty peasant. Have you been told of the reasons you are here?"

Genesis looked at Marguerite with hatred. "No."

"You will address me with befitting titles."

"Only Sephiroth is worthy of your titles," he parried defiantly, and the king turned crimson with rage, "and only him I shall treat with deference."

The redhead knew what his words would be fraught with, but could not refrain from the remark to feel satisfaction, however short, with Philippe's anger. It turned into splitting pain when the sentry delivered a blow to his stomach with the blunt side of the spear. For a moment the redhead could not breathe, gaping as the trapped air tried to leave his chest.

He wouldn't be so easily broken. Spitting blood, he smirked and received another blow.

"Stop it. You don't want to kill him," it was hitherto silent Marguerite.

"Are you trying to argue with me, woman?"

A short laugh, quiet and lacking genuine mirth. Marguerite wiped her mouth with the long sleeve and spoke to herself, "He won't forgive you the murder. He never truly forgave me. Do whatever you wish, Your Majesty, but know that he will not absolve your doings."

"Sephiroth?"

"Sephiroth? Was I talking about Sephiroth?" She looked around, then at the quivering canopy. "You are awful hypocrites; I said God would not forgive you."

Genesis licked the cold blood off his lips. "But Sephiroth will never forgive _you_ this treason."

For a moment Marguerite looked like a frightened, wilted bird. "And who are you to judge the decisions of my son?" Then her face lit up with rampant, almost surreal joy. "I need to greet my son; he has just arrived after the victory over the Flemish rebels, and I worried he would be injured. But he is all right, I can tell you that. He always comes back to me."

"Don't let her out of your sight," the king ordered to the sentry and continued when the latter left. "What a pity. She used to be a fine woman, but something ate her away from the inside, and now she barely realizes where she is. My priest would say that demons had possessed her. What would you say?"

"_Non compos mentis_," replied Genesis. "Insanity."

"I see that you are very well educated in words and bold," Philippe rubbed his hands and breathed on them in a non-royal manner. "But in the present situation it hardly matters. I know everything about your unorthodox relationships with the insurgent as well as his intentions to steal my crown – rumors I would otherwise dismiss as a preposterous canard, however, the circumstances forced met to admit that the demon-possessed woman wasn't telling a lie. You can help me repress the rebels and even if that Lombard asked for your punishment, I will set you free. Go wherever you choose for all I care. I will even forget your sinful involvements with Sephiroth. Sephiroth, Sephiroth… may God curse his existence… But you will have to do a favor for the French crown. " Genesis felt bile forming in his throat. "I have a few questions for you; answer them with as much veracity as you can and I will release you."

"You lie!"

"Why would I?" Philippe objected with a disparaging shrug of his shoulders. "Per se, your involvement in this.. ugly matter is forced as far as I am concerned… Sephiroth is a noble, you are a commoner…"

"I joined him of my own free will!"

"You are making things more difficult for yourself," the benevolent countenance gave way to an angry frown, which distorted the king's face, leaving nothing of the nobleness. "I need to know whether he truly is the Capetian bastard and how to stop him. I am certain he shared the clandestine details of his tactics with you."

The redhead helplessly twitched, as if in an attempt to free himself from the ropes. Sharp pangs in his wrists joined the nagging pain in his reeling head and broken body. Somehow he needed to find a way to win the duel.

"Why would I do it? You will kill us both," then added, "Your Majesty," as a spit.

"In the name of Saint Denis! How many more times does a king have to justify himself before a peasant?"

Genesis forced himself to laugh, the sound – foreign, distorted by wheezes beyond recognition. "I will answer your first question. Sephiroth is the illegitimate son of Philippe the Handsome and a woman by the name of Jenova, yet I shall say no more."

"Then I will have to torture the answer out of you."

The redhead clenched his teeth. Torture. The last time Genesis faced it was in a noisome dungeon of the Holy Inquisition; he had cowered then, having denied his involvement with father Clement, his preceptor and friend. The redhead knew that Clement was going to die, firmly believing in his convictions, yet found himself incapable of such meaningless self-sacrifice, easily abnegating his faith. If he betrayed Sephiroth, he would have to forget the silver-haired enigma existed; if he chose to remain quiescent, there would be pain, a whole sea of blood-red, scorching pain.

"You will not dare! You want to use me against Sephiroth, don't you? But if he found out what you did to me, he would kill you; he would walk through your domains like an angel of death, and whenever his sword rose, one of you would fall."

For a moment he made the disgruntled king pale. "The viscount is but one man, and with time he will remember who he has sworn loyalty to."

Genesis shook his head. The morning star died.

"'Tis but a vain hope! I was at Crecy, I saw it all. Thereat you killed that man – his devotion, his faith, his reason to follow your cause, however strong it was before. He came back from the brink of death, and he will not waver until his goal is achieved. Don't try to use me as bait or guarantee to assure your safety – it will serve you no good. He will simply leave me to die."

The redheaded monk spoke with zeal of conviction and with the same fervor did not want to believe in the words he so carelessly spat out. Sephiroth promised not to abandon him, yet the only guarantee was the silver ring and nine months spent in a shared bed. Was it enough to harbor hope?

The king regained his composure. "'Tis a sheer folly. Besides, it is in your interest to compel _your lover_ to stop. Maybe, he will achieve something in the end, but it is a cold comfort for the dead. I suggest you think about my offer and comply with my request." Philippe neared the canopy. "We will start moving in an hour and when we reach my stronghold, I will ask for your final decision. You should be honored we are treating you like a noble, and for your own benefit you'd better not disappoint us."

When the canopy stopped quivering and the crunching of snow faded in the howl of wind, Genesis closed his eyes and shrunk into the furthest, warmest corner of the marquee.

So has begun his road to hell.

* * *

Bright-green eyes slit with vertical, black pupils were sliding along the lines of armed men as their holder – a tall, slender man with waist-length silver hair – stood motionless a few feet away. His gaze was thoughtfully vacant as if the knight wasn't present in the old armory at that moment. He stared at the new recruits until the silence became uncomfortable and Sir Jean cleared his throat deliberately loudly.

"How are we going to pay their emoluments?"

The change on the chiseled face was barely noticeable, but a whit of the otherworldly detachment was gone when the Viscount stirred to turn his face towards his interlocutor.

"How much do you have?"

"The supply of gold should last a week," echoed Sir Jean, "but Your Majesty needs to find a way to replenish our coffers."

Pensive glance slid further, lingered on the blackened with smoke beam where it abutted on the roof, then fell onto the long rows of weapon racks as if trying to snatch at something. There were so many thoughts in his head at once, each one a scream demanding his attention, each one – irksome and painful; the growing feeling was akin to the one he experienced in the marquee before the battle of Crecy when he knew he would lead his faithful vassals to death and die with them. With thin, long fingers Sephiroth massaged his burning temples and made himself focus.

"You were saying…"

"We need at least a thousand livres to pay the troops and provisions to feed them."

Genesis hasn't come back in the morning; Viscount du Bugey woke up in the room alone, and then frightened Alber informed him that his lover hadn't returned. Sephiroth already knew that trouble befell the redhead this time. Having sent his squire to search for Genesis, the knight met with his allies to wrap up the preparations before their march towards the king's forces; no matter how much he desired to find his lover, Sephiroth had no time to dwell on personal feelings or, bereft of his leadership, the army would thaw and his scheme - turn out to be a failure.

For a heartbeat Sephiroth stood quiescent, eyes closed, gathering his thoughts; there was subtle weariness in his pose, shoulders slightly stooping, but his voice was level and authority in the order he issued - staunch.

"Take everything from the English encampment, and if it is not enough, send parties to the villages in the vicinity of Calais and Saint Omer. Heavy requisitions should be enough, but if you encounter fierce resistance, notably from Philippe's supporters, you have a permission to burn the settlement."

Sir Jean, not a truculent person at heart, guiltily whispered. "We would become like the Englishmen."

Sephiroth didn't feel the need to remind his ally that they were fighting a war against the French throne; instead, he chose to elaborate on his order.

"However, if I hear that your or Odo's troops are burning villages out of personal greed, I will hang every single participant."

"Such harshness will not earn you a lot of sympathy either," the military leader of Calais tried to object.

"I did not start this war to become a king of ruins. If we battled on English soil, I would not make strict demands, but for now I require iron discipline."

"What if they revolt?"

"Promise considerable loot once we have a victory over Philippe." Sephiroth's gaze, heavy, stern, returned to the future infantrymen. " Did you test their battle skills?"

Sir Jean didn't sound embarrassed. "They did well for the inhabitants of a city that never repulsed an attack of an enemy direr than pirates."

When Sephiroth left the armory, he could not dismiss the sight of citizens – armed and trained all anyhow – staring at him, fear, awe, and greed blending in their glances. The blizzard subsided, but heavy, pregnant with snow clouds promised another one soon. Their silent oppressive presence did not help mollify the knight's own fears and lay aside the dismal thoughts. Sephiroth mounted and, escorted by his vassals, galloped towards the Bishop's residence with intention to conduct his own search for his lover.

News of a different kind awaited the viscount there. No sooner had he alighted than his squire ran up to him, looking paler than usual, and hastily breathed out.

"Messire, a herald from the French king is waiting for you."

His heart was wrung with the foreboding of evil. Ignoring the messenger Odo sent, Sephiroth quickly strode into the study and froze on the threshold the moment he caught sight of the person Philippe chose to deliver him the news. The knight was expecting to see anyone but the slightly thinned, yet still sleek enough to stand out among his warriors and vassals Lombard. The merchant's face was white as virgin linen of snow.

"Messire Sephiroth," Lorenzo bowed, swallowing saliva to wet his throat. He looked like he would prefer to be in hell rather than in one room with Visount du Bugey.

Sephiroth tightly wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his brand, a moment of his inner struggle outwardly shown in the straight line of his lips and an intimidating frown. Yet, with an effort, he pulled himself together after a few moment of eloquent silence.

"You serve as a French lackey, I see." Having crossed the room with resolute step, Viscount du Bugey settled in his armchair and directed his eyes on the hapless messenger.

Lorenzo had a feeble control over his emotions, betraying his nervousness with every glance and gesture. "We both are victims of your stepmother's underhand plotting. I was shamelessly used in her plots, and now Philippe manipulates me as he wishes. He wants my money, but I feel he will take my gold and leave me with one of those generous promises of acquittance my ancestors often received from nobles. I wouldn't have disturbed you if he didn't order me."

"Very well. Tell me what you have to convey and leave. Next time you come to me for whatever reason I will have you executed for being involved with my stepmother's treachery."

"As you wish, messire," the merchant's face relaxed, color returning to his cheeks together with the ever present avid gleam in his glance. Sephiroth could have sworn he heard thoughts passing through the Lombard's head about how to turn the situation to his benefit. "But, to get closer to the point… His Majesty captured your lover and whishes to negotiate the terms of your surrender."

The news was like a blow to his stomach - poignant, abrupt, leaving him breathless. The world narrowed to a black dot, the words kept ringing, but Sephiroth still could not grasp or believe what he was hearing. The realization was slow, and it took him a minute to put surrender, capture and Genesis into one coherent thought. The ghost of his fear manifested itself into a stark image of the redhead, chained and beaten, lying on the cold floor. Then he remembered that his lover could not endure long nights in a prison cell and that he had no right to surrender.

Lorenzo's eyes sparked triumphantly when he saw how Sephiroth's shoulders drooped, how all of a sudden the otherworldly creature turned into a tired, lonely man. The merchant felt that if he added a tad more pressure, he would break, and all the humiliation the Lombard went through because of the knight would be requited a hundredfold.

"What does Philippe demand?"

"You will need to disband your army, surrender your titles, and hand the heads of other conspirators to His Majesty. If any of these conditions are not met, Genesis will be executed on the dawn of the third day."

With the same wonderful indifference and ease Philippe could have asked him to die.

"How can I be certain that he does not lie?"

"Genesis wrote a letter, and I brought it to you."

With palpitating heart Sephiroth extended his arm. The heavy stack of parchment felt cold in his fingers, but as he carefully unfolded it, afraid to read what his lover had to say, he understood that Philippe sent him a flam.

"Do you think I am a complete fool?" A billow of cold ire surged inside, threatening to tear his self-mastery into shreds. Sephiroth rose, now looking down at the merchant, and flung the parchment aside. The pages flew asunder and slowly landed on the floor. "This is not Genesis' handwriting."

Lorenzo paled and lowered his gaze. "Genesis refused to comply with the king's demands, and Philippe…"

With another inhuman effort Sephiroth calmed himself and sank back into the deep armchair. Time, his mind prompted. He needed to win a little more time. It has already become clear to the viscount that he would never agree to anything the French king could suggest.

"Would you like a game of chess?" He asked suddenly. "Last time you refused me the pleasure."

Genesis would hold, the knight thought, procuring a chessboard from underneath the table and setting the pieces for bloodless battle. They would not dare kill him. They would _not _dare.

"Why not?" Lorenzo moved a chair closer to the table and took a seat. Sephiroth made his first move with the white pawn and responded with a bishop to the merchant's move. It was a battlefield - of a different kind, yet still a ground familiar enough, where Viscount du Bugey wasn't used to losses.

"Tell your king that I need time to think. I cannot agree to his terms, but I will prepare my own; perhaps, we could agree to milder conditions of… my surrender." It was easier to slit the merchant's throat than force the last words out of his mouth.

"I will try, but what if he kills your Genesis in anger? I suggest you…"

"I suggest that he wait," long fingers touched a rook and moved it out into the open field, threatening the Lombard's knight and bishop. "If he kills my _lover _- I believe my stepmother made it clear to you all that he is my lover - he has to understand that nothing will be holding me back. I will not rest until I eradicate the very trace of his existence."

The merchant laughed, as his knight fell and rolled off the board. "And Marguerite told us you would surrender without a second thought."

"Do not mention her name to me." Sephiroth brought out his queen, trapping the black king. "Check."

Lorenzo spent a minute thinking, then adroitly avoided the defeat by sacrificing his bishop. "As you wish, messire. I will pass your words to His Majesty. But it seems you have lost your knack at chess game."

With unconcealed triumph the Lombard removed the fallen white queen from the board. Sephiroth's eyes flickered between then wooden pieces. Lips stretched in a light, almost harmless smirk. It will have to become his game, where he is one step ahead of his rivals, when he manipulates, and they follow; when the French king becomes nothing but his puppet.

"Do not test me on this." Viscount du Bugey moved his second rook from the rear whereat it remained hidden until the very last moment. "Check and mate."

"I always meant to ask how you do it, messire." In befuddlement, Lorenzo stared at the chessboard.

Sephiroth threw the heavy mass of glistening silver off his shoulders. "Ask Philippe about the battle at Crecy, then you might receive an answer."

The Lombard understood the hint, rising with a respectful bow.

"I also wanted to ask about your birth mother. Was she truly a demon as Marguerite says?"

Viscount du Bugey mirthlessly chuckled. "You are extremely eloquent today, Lorenzo. You were not as willing to negotiate the last time, when you sent assassins after my lover."

Lorenzo pulled a face as though he tasted something sour. "I was already leaving, messire."

"Very well. And tell Philippe to send another messenger next time, for I will have you executed."

The knight was going to execute him anyhow at the same time with others, who knew about Genesis and him, but the Lombard didn't need to know about his decision yet. The merchant hastily nodded and retreated into the safety of the hallway. When the door behind him closed, Sephiroth dropped his head onto his chest and set motionless until his squire slipped into the room and quietly whispered.

"The scout has just returned, milord. Philippe de Valois left his encampment and headed towards Chateau d'Argilly."

* * *

The monotonous voice was chuntering in the darkness, '_Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipoténtem, factorem cali et terra, visibílium ómnium et invisibíliu...__ Credo in unum Deum…"_ Two faceless monks in dark hoods leaned over his huddled body, having blotted out the third one, who incessantly repeated the same words. It was a ritual of renunciation of heresy, a sign that the stray soul was capable of rejecting Satan's lies and return to the blessed fold of the Church. Genesis covered his face with his hands and screamed, "Credo in unum Deum! Credo!"

The answer was silence. Cerulean eyes fluttered open, and the haunting ghosts from his past vanished, leaving him in the prison cell alone.

Genesis sat up and looked around. A narrow guarded window stared back at him, the sight - bleak, cheerless and oppressing. Aside from it and a small straw mattress, the room was empty walls and a barren ceiling. Through the mist, illumined by the setting sun, Genesis could see the contours of the courtyard and the outer wall; stray, lonely snowflakes were falling through the window and thawed once they touched the cold stones.

The redhead could hardly remember how he got here. For hours he heard creaking of the cart and occasional soldier's quarrel, traveling league after league blindfolded. Thereafter he was tossed into the dungeon, and his tormentors left, yet returned all too soon. Someone's hands picked him up, dragged him towards the exit door and through the long, torturous corridors which ended with the torture chamber. The redhead did not resist; after he spent a few hours in the dank cell, abandoned to old memories, he had no strength to waste on trifles.

King Philippe and three hooded men sat by the white-hot flames, meticulously fed in a large brazier. Numerous instruments of torture hung on the walls, gleaming a frightening crimson, and creepy shadows, flung by people and furniture, danced on the walls, like trapped beasts. In the chamber there was no sight of Marguerite.

The guards let go of Genesis at the king's feet. The redhead didn't make an attempt to rise, only stirred to press his knees to his chest and dropped his gaze to the floor. He did not want to look around, notably at the white-hot rod the executioner put into the fire.

The rusty door closed with a long, shrewd creak, cutting all sounds from the outside world, and then Philippe spoke to him.

"I hope you gave my request enough thought, because you were right. Sephiroth will not surrender. In fact, he is leaving Calais at this very moment, heading towards my fortress. How disappointing, don't you find?"

'_He is saying that on purpose_,' Genesis assured himself. _'It cannot be true because Sephiroth does not break his word to those who are loyal to him.'_

"I expected nothing less of my lover," the redhead made his voice sound proud and unwavering, even if inside he was aching. "You will have to work hard to earn the victory over him, and even all your hard work will not be enough."

"You speak so highly of this... Sephiroth, serf, but if you don't help us, you will not live long enough to see him either fail or succeed."

"I am certain of his victory," Genesis tossed his head, meeting the king's eyes with burning azure, "because he is the best."

"Sephiroth is but _one_ man!"

"No, he is much more."

"Jacques!" Exclaimed enraged Philippe. "I am tired of this peasant's obstinate disobedience. Show us that I did not invite him for an idle chatter."

So it began. Genesis clenched his teeth when strong hands stripped him of the dirty, soaked clothes. A hooded hangman by the name of Jacques dispassionately pulled the rod out of the brazier and pressed to his skin between his shoulder blades. The redhead only bit his lower lip and clenched his teeth with more force. They will not hear him scream so soon. He has to endure the pain without saying a word and believing that Sephiroth will rescue him.

"I am sure you didn't like it," speaking, Philippe paced up and down the room. Genesis saw his comfortable leather boots. "We can end this torment any minute, you just have to say a word, and..."

"Don't you want to hear me scream?" Genesis parried with all defiance he could muster.

This time there were two rods biting into his flesh like ruthless beasts; he twitched in strong arms in a futile attempt to get away from the source of torment and screamed. His voice pushed the wadded silence apart and died in a quiet moan when, released, he collapsed on the floor, facing the mossy stones. Sweat beaded on his forehead in the cold, damp air of the underground dungeon.

He will hold.

"Don't you want to say something now?"

Genesis remained silent, saving his strength for the next onslaught of torment. Philippe curtly gestured for the hangman to continue, and the latter poured a bucket of icy-cold water over his burning back. Tears, elicited by overwhelming pain, streamed down the redhead's cheeks, mixing with blood and dirt. It felt as if there was something growing inside him; something so large that it would tear him apart once it ripened.

Genesis didn't remember how long the torment lasted – for hours, days, or, maybe even years. By the time the assiduous hangman was finished, his body turned into a burnt, bloodied heap of pain with no shape or other feelings.

Yet, he held, and the king's face darkened each moment his lips remained tightly shut. Philippe gave up first.

"I see you are stubborn. We would have granted you death were you of no use, but we feel your life is of more worth than your corpse."

_Drip-drop… drip-drop… drip-drop…_

Somewhere a little streamlet was murmuring, its faint whisper a soothing balm; Genesis moved his hand a little and wiped his dirty face with his palm. It was wet; it meant he was still alive. It meant it was still early to yield.

"I will ask you one last time today to…"

Laughing like a madman, Genesis gathered his last strength to straighten and screamed, "He will kill you! He will kill you all!"

"Jacques!"

The white-hot rod landed on his back, stealing his breath away, scorching and leaving another burnt, bloodied spot. Drained of all strength, the redhead finally sank upon the floor in a collapse of misery; each breath woke a painful echo in the chest, he could not feel his back or arms in the sea of raging pain his body had become, the only discernable sensation being the salty taste of blood mixed with tears.

"This should be enough for today. We will carry on tomorrow."

Hands picked up his broken body, carried through the suffocating darkness, and threw onto the straw mattress inside his cell. The redhead moaned when cold stones cut into his body, but otherwise made no attempts to stir. Genesis proudly bore the pain; he might find strength to withstand it tomorrow and the day after that, only how long would it last? Or, perhaps, he would mercifully freeze before more pain came.

Snow was falling thick through the window, cold droplets landing on him and around him; Sephiroth was like snow, like ice, and even melted like one.

_If I die, will he avenge me so that the whole world remembers my pain, my tears, my sacrifice?_

_Will he?_

_How cruel is… everything…_

Genesis' fingers twitched and – with blood upon thawing snow – traced a letter. They started moving, shaping a familiar 'V' – Veritas, Truth – but faltered half way, drawing a sharp, angular 'S' instead.

_Sephiroth._

One can't restrain the maelstrom with bare hands; one can't hold back the lightning, which audaciously strikes from the ground downright into the skies.

* * *

The storm was howling like a mad child, burning alive in a hut. Words that used to chill blood in Alber's veins sometimes passed his master's lips, notably when Sephiroth mentioned the campaign against the insurgent peasants at Flanders. His liege's past as well as his personality always remained an enigma for the youth; at times Sephiroth could be harsh, at times - benevolent, and then all of a sudden a secret from his previous years would ruin the impression he gained in the young squire's mind. There was, however, one trait of his, which never changed. Sephiroth was loyal to those, who remained loyal to him.

Sitting on his narrow bed in servant's quarters, Alber was retelling it all to Jean. Sephiroth dismissed him from his daily duties, and when the youth came downstairs to his den, he found his brother awake and staring at him with accusation.

"Why did you let him do it?" Was his first sane question; albeit weak as before, it sounded with reproach and without hatred.

Overjoyed, the youth brought Jean some food from the kitchen, and while the latter hungrily ate, tried to explain his master's decision to allay his brother's contradictory emotions.

"… and now he lost a… a very good friend of his when he was captured by our enemy. Not only you or I had to sacrifice something; their pain is no less strong than yours."

Jean looked helpless, extending him the mutilated hand. "But what am I going to do now? I cannot become anyone's squire or knight; I cannot even tilt the land or serve a noble lord. Who will need a freak like me?" Then he burst into bitter tears, repeating between sobs, "I won't forgive him, ever. I can't… no forgiveness… not for him…"

Alber sighed. It was the hardest part, to reconcile two parts of his life, but he had to try.

"You made a mistake, Jean. You trusted messire's stepmother when you should have come to me."

"But he doesn't even care about my existence!"

"No, he doesn't," hazel eyes – mirthless, stern – looked at the pale, enervated youth. "But Sephiroth's… friend was captured because you made a mistake. Don't you see what kind of a choice he faces now?"

"It serves him right!" Exclaimed Jean with a stubborn pout.

"You cannot say this!" Alber leapt up, gaze burning with indignation. "What if I lost you or you lost me? Would you think I deserved it?"

Jean was bemused, expression vivid even through profusely falling tears.

"Why is God so unfair to me? What did I do wrong?"

The youth settled down on his brother's bed and poured him another glass of warm milk. "Drink, you need strength."

"You didn't answer me, Alber."

His brother's eyes were huge lakes filled with endless reproach. "I don't know, Jean. Bible teaches us to bear hardships with humility. We cannot slander God… only fear him. But Genesis said once that this God we know does not exist, and I... He is wiser than me…"

"Are you saying…" Perplexity. Fright.

"I don't want to solve questions of universe. I just want to live rightly, serving my master whenever he goes, for my life belongs to Sephiroth, and he is free to do with it what he wishes."

"But where does that leave me?"

Alber picked up a blanket and wrapped it around his brother's frail, trembling shoulders.

"You sleep, and I will think of something."

Then he extinguished the candle, for a moment seized by a fit of unknown fear, which he dismissed as the result of a long, tiresome day. The raging storm outside kept the young squire from slipping into merciful oblivion, and when Alber finally fell asleep, he still blissfully did not know that his brother would never wake up.

* * *

The storm was howling like a mad child, trapped in a burning hut. Sephiroth used to hear their screams all the time, as they – still fresh in his memory - haunted him, returning unexpectedly in nightmares or chance recollections. He was a twelve year old naïve boy when the war swallowed him; he was a seasoned warrior when it ended thirteen years later with their exile from Flanders.

As always in moments of deep pother, Sephiroth was pacing up and down the room, long strides measuring the distance from the wall with the window and backwards. Arms were tightly locked behind his back, pale from strain fingers covered underneath the swaying silver fringe. Outside, the wind was throwing whirling snowflakes against the glass with force of unquenchable rage. Inside, a candle was burning in cozy semi-darkness, flinging quivering yellow shadows onto the furniture and a chessboard, which stood on the table, white and black pieces readied for battle. There was no one eager to engage in one.

'_Think_,' he ordered himself. "_Where there is a will, there is a way._"

The Duke called on him in the afternoon. The conversation between them was short.

"How are the preparations, Your Majesty? Are we still leaving Calais tomorrow?" He asked.

"We are," Sephiroth replied tersely.

"I am glad you did not alter our intentions, for I would advise against any changes."

Even Genesis' absence could not alter anything. There was only emptiness inside, but it wasn't enough for him to falter in his determination. Tomorrow they will leave Calais and begin their advance towards Chateau d'Argilly. His plan wasn't subject to much change; however, one obstacle remained, and Sephiroth could not sleep until he could see the right decision. If Philippe knew of his persistent advancement towards his stronghold, he would execute Genesis. Was there a way to free his lover without breaking the word the viscount gave to him and keeping the trust of his allies? Or would he have to sacrifice Genesis' life in the end, despite the aching in his heart; sacrifice, like he immolated so many others?

Sacrifice, as if he were a dispassionate god, who whisked off men's lives like pawns from a chessboard – with but an unobtrusive movement of his hand.


	40. Chapter XXXIX: To hell and below, II

_**A/N: **_Theme songs: 'A mental symphony' and 'Lethargica' by Sirenia. And my most sincere gratitude goes to my wonderful beta, AlexJ69. :)

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Courage d'esprit_ – a French term used in military strategy theory to describe resolution needed to make an important decision in battle.

_Ce n'est ni un homme ni une bête. C'est une statue. (fr.) – _It is neither a man, nor a beast. It is a statue.

* * *

_**Chapter XXXIX.**_

_**To hell and below.**_

_**Part II.**_

Bestrewn with snow, the glade looked like a windless sea, gilded by the rain of saffron sparks, which spilled all over from scattered shafts of light. It was early morning, a peaceful time of day, when nature still slumbered and when it seemed no forces existed to disrupt the tranquility. Awakening, trees shook their crowns in the wind, and a frozen rivulet shimmered in wan sunlight.

In this peaceful hour, a wolf was trotting through the pristine forest when a foreign smell suddenly touched his nostrils, a smell of horses, steel, and human blood. The animal froze, darting a guarded look towards the glade, which showed between the dark tree trunks. He usually shunned the two-legged creatures, for they brought fire and death with them, but instinctive curiosity prevailed. Slowly, paws leaving a thin chain of wakes on the snow, the wolf headed towards the source of the disturbing and at the same time intoxicating smell.

Half way to the glade, a man lay in a pool of his blood, a dark mass of misshapen hauberk, cloth, and smashed skull. The wolf neared the man carefully, expecting the latter to move, yet moments slipped by and the body remained lifeless. Having grown bolder, he circled the quiescent heap, head titling to the side and feral eyes glimmering brightly. The fatal blow was delivered at an angle, crushing the delicate temporal bone and mutilating the bearded face beyond recognition. The wolf cautiously licked the frozen crimson crust, and the taste, breathtakingly sweet and arousing thirst, touched his tongue. Avidly, he lapped up the melting blood and set to devour the flesh, ripping pieces of the still warm meat with an occasional content growl.

Horses and men showed dark in the distance. Glancing at the glade from time to time, the wolf discerned a tall figure on a black steed. The knight sat half-turned, and the animal could see another short and lean man, wearing a helmet adorned with a replica of the French crown over his shoulder-length hair. The first interlocutor came bareheaded, and the wind gently tousled silver tresses, carelessly throwing them, like waves, against the steel bastions of his armor. To the wolf all two-legged creatures looked the same, and he distinguished them by smell.

Having satiated himself, the animal noticed a trail behind the mutilated body; it appeared the man didn't die from the blow, but crawled a short while before finally collapsing. The snow still preserved the imprints of the warrior's palms as he desperately crept towards the glade. A piece of parchment was crumpled in the man's fist and upon it a note was hastily written, the scribbling – important to some, worthless to others – reading, '_It's a trap'_. The wolf smelled the note with disinterest - its scent did not point to anything edible, instead flinging unpleasant odor of a human dwelling.

A neigh was suddenly heard from the glade, frightening the animal. Two men were arguing now or, rather, the black-haired knight raised his voice while the other, as if mocking the angry interlocutor, remained calm. Feeling the pleasant heaviness of food in his stomach, the wolf decided not to try his fortune any longer. Having sniffed the air, he trotted towards the forest, his light-gray hide blending with the whiteness of snow.

* * *

_Five days ago…_

Almost every plan looked flawless on parchment. The angles of attacks were perfect, the disposition of batailles – flawless, like they would never be in reality. Sephiroth was aware that his ability to make plans on vellum wasn't enough, just as he knew that _courage d'esprit_ alone could not suffice either. The difference between mediocrity and brilliance in the career of a military leader lied in the so-called _coup d'oeil_, a rapid ability to discover the truth, which to the ordinary mind was either not visible at all or became so after long reflections. It was _coup d'oeil, _which let him see the demise of the French army from the English longbows before Crecy; he required the same _coup d'oeil_ now, when a sand fortress of his carefully conceived designs crumbled in a blink of an eye.

Saddle-fast, Sephiroth intently surveyed his troops, which obediently lined up on the streets of Calais. Long rows of war veterans, who lived through the hell of Flanders and Crecy, blended with callow recruits, who awkwardly clenched weapons in their freezing hands He gathered them for a reason. Nothing boosted the morale like a stunning victory, a plentiful salary, or a chance to behold the leader in his infallible glory, which was exactly what his vassals saw. The chiseled face did not betray even traces of thoughts that lurked behind the tired virescent eyes, in the gentle bow of silver eyebrows or in the straight line of his lips. They could not know Sephiroth had demurs; for them, he was a distant god in a shiny halo of chivalry, whom they doubtlessly and fearlessly would follow to hell if he asked so.

Strange calmness descended upon the viscount yesterday, when he, trapped in a poky little room, finally reached a decision. A decision was always better than the lack thereof. A decision meant that he had at least found his _courage d'esprit_. It was almost painless to make up his mind, a mind all his life trapped in solitude, and if his lover perished, he would only return to his natural state. The sublime, unconquerable solitude. Whereas embracing the beggardom of such fate without a fight was impossible, Sephiroth would silently accede to its demands if he were to face defeat. Abating pride and asking for mercy was hardly a possible choice, for endless was the wellspring of his arrogance, even when he descended to hell.

Sephiroth fancied Genesis' voice saying with gibe, _'…for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return…'_

Then a unanimous shout rang, wedging into his thoughts, lashing as with a leather whip. Unwittingly, Sephiroth touched the reign, and his horse began walking along the rows of the infantry and cavalry, and the Frenchmen raised their weapons, vociferating. Among their salutatory shouts, his name was notable for its strength. It shot up to the steel-gray sky, invincible, haughty, audacious, and to its sound, Sephiroth turned his head, eyes ablaze, like a predator's. The vassals loved him and always would for as long as he gave them victory, gold, and glory.

"Long live Sephiroth! Long live Sephiroth!"

The jet-black steed gathered speed, the hooves monotonously clattering against the paved road. The indigo cloak fluttered, belatedly hurrying after its master. More shouts joined the fading sounds in the viscount's ears, reviving them anew – the pride, the will for triumph, the embittered, primal desire. Something beautiful, a unanimous willpower, a single volition, was begotten when the bridges were burnt and the only road remaining was a narrow pathway forward, forward, forward…

To whatever end.

"Long live the king!"

They all expected something from their unerring god. Few understood that he was only human.

They left Calais without bustle, almost unnoticed. A small crowd of citizens saw them to the gates, but it was a pale shade of the thong, which greeted them upon entering. Sephiroth was certain now that Philippe had spies in Calais – otherwise he would never find Genesis so easily, damn his stepmother for that – and that they would inform the French kind at once. Thereat he sent Alber to Chateau d'Argilly in the morning and expected vital news to be delivered at halt. His squire had a few more hours and so did he to think everything over once again.

A long, dismal road stretched from underneath the hooves of Sephiroth's steed. Behind was his first victory, eight leagues thence – half way between Calais and Bethune – the king's castle stretched out in the outfall of a small river. By nightfall, they would reach the outskirts of Boulogne and halt thereat. What would happen afterwards depended on the news Alber would bring.

Sephiroth's retinue of bannerets rode silently, rarely exchanging remarks. Twilight hid the vanguard and the rearguard, and after a few hours, only a lively chain of crimson torches could be seen behind and ahead of them. It spread along the road, ramifying to the left and right, and between the bare tree trunks numerous lights flickered, winking at each other. Sephiroth comported himself aloofly, barely inside the circle, painted on the road by the quivering torch light. Unseeing eyes were riveted on something in the distance as their holder, abandoned to memories, reminisced. Awhile, his thoughts wandered in many directions, eventually returning to Genesis. The genesis of passion. The spark deep within him, setting his cold blood ablaze, bringing a taste of youth into his life. Alone, Sephiroth felt too old. Alone, the viscount saw visions, begotten before his inner sight; visions of France choking with blood, of France in ashes, of kneeling France. The only thought of Philippe torturing his lover brought those visions, one darker than another, back. He promised he would not to yield. He promised that Avignon would fall.

And long before that, he once promised Genesis not to leave him.

They reached the halt without any incidents, shunned by both men and beasts. Warned by the messengers Sephiroth preventively sent to the village, the intruders were awaited and even welcomed, even though the city of Boulogne kept its gates closed. At least, it sent out a delegation to announce about its peaceful intentions. Some cities preferred neutrality, but it didn't bother the knight as much as open animosity. He decided he would raze those centers of fierce resistance, including Philippe's Chateau d'Argilly, and once he left the lands of his ally, the chance of encountering those would grow.

A heated hut with sundry amenities, like a large bed, a fireplace, and a table with food was already waiting for him. As soon as Sephiroth posted the sentries and stepped over the threshold of his quarters, he dismissed everyone besides the Duke of Burgundy. His most trusted ally removed his cloak and approached the fireplace to warm his hands over the crackling wood.

"You look tired, Your Majesty."

Sephiroth uttered a dry chuckle, feeling his lips folding into a weary smirk.

"I _am_ tired, Odo," the confession came out easily. "There is a limit to the effort a human being can apply, and today I reached mine."

"Does it have anything to do with the news you received yesterday? Do not think I am blind, Sephiroth."

"That news concerns me personally, and you may rest assured it won't…"

Odo interrupted him.

"I am not worried about your treason. Our alliance is sealed, the interest is mutual, and you proved yourself to be an astute leader. However, the news may endanger our plot in many different ways, so if there is anything that could be done about that personal matter of yours, I would like to solve it as quickly as possible."

Sephiroth remembered the Duke's words spoken a few days before. Mentioning Genesis in his ally's presence was undesirable, and the last word was an understatement at that. In a heartbeat, thoughtful green eyes turned cold and incisive as gems with sharp facets.

"The king demands my surrender, because he holds someone valuable to me captive. There is absolutely nothing you can do."

"That _someone_ must be that redheaded monk I have often seen in your company, Your Highness. He suddenly disappeared a few days back. But Philippe has to understand he is no threat to our scheme, or…" the Duke, despite being quite bulky in full armor, turned gracefully. "That commoner isn't a threat, is he?"

The snake of his anger raised its head, uncoiling its endless body and hissing helplessly, for although Sephiroth was tired, he still kept control over his feelings. "He is no more of a threat to me than your captured son would be to you, Odo."

In silence the Duke of Burgundy met and held Sephiroth's gaze – wintry-green, piercing - calmly.

"I am not pious, Your Majesty," he then replied with dignity. "And you need frequent shrifts as much as I do. As long as it remains a secret and you keep performing your utmost duty to France, protecting it and giving us a healthy heir, no one will ever remember those… shrifts."

"And as long as I keep your coffers full?" Sharply, pungently.

"I did not follow Your Highness in this risky venture simply because I was offered generous payment and reward." The Duke bowed with the same imperturbable face. "If you were akin to your half-brother Louis - may his soul rest in peace – no gold would be enough to buy my support. Do not confuse me with Mahaut of Artois, Sire. If I did not beheld that France needed another king, my vassals would continue serving the chosen vicar."

Sephiroth leaned back in the chair, slowly weaving and unweaving his fingers.

"_Ce n'est ni un homme ni une bête. C'est une statue_." His voice was a whisper. All anger thawed. "In these very words a bishop once described my father. Not the man, who adopted me, but the man, whose blood runs in my veins, Philip of Capet, the accursed king. Are you afraid of curses, Odo?" Involuntarily, the Duke turned his gaze towards the black wooden crucifix above the fireplace – two sticks crossed awry with a shapeless embossment on them. What madness it was to look for love and blessings of a man dead for more than a millennia. Sephiroth quietly laughed. "My father passed judgment on the Templar Knights because he was dissatisfied with control they had over the French monarchy; the Order was disbanded, thousands of knights executed."

Words failed the Duke or, maybe, the reason for his confusion was Sephiroth's intent stare, continuously following his every movement.

"You might wonder," the silver-haired knight continued, "why I am telling this to you now. I wanted to remind you, whose heritage I wield, and that you have nothing to worry over. I will not falter. I would not have faltered even if Genesis were… my son. You should concern yourself with the English prisoners."

Fatigue rolled in, tightly lapping the edges of his mind in a deceptively soft shroud, and albeit vigilant he was nonetheless, it was a telltale sign he needed rest. This time the Duke lost the duel of words, but who could assure him that more vassals weren't going to ask similar questions?

The door opened soundlessly.

"Your Highness, Alber is here to see you, he said it was urgent."

Sephiroth waved his hand. "Let him in. Odo?"

The Duke bowed again.

"I was already leaving, Your Majesty."

The viscount was relieved to see his squire in good health. When he gave orders to the youth that morning, he could see traces of mental anguish. Now Alber looked pale and frozen, but otherwise intact, only hazel eyes shined with some grave resolve.

"You may speak."

"Your Majesty, I have done everything you asked. Messire Philippe received your letter and promised to respond in a day or two." The youth no longer called the king of France by his title.

"Did you hear any news about Genesis' fate?"

Alber nodded and Sephiroth felt his heart skip a beat. "They let me see him, but he did not know I was there. He was alive when I left."

"What about the castle's fortifications and Philippe's army?"

"The castle is very well fortified – five corner towers, double row of walls, and a fosse, girding the outer wall. It will be hard to lay siege to it and even harder to breach its defenses. His loyal vassals are slowly gathering under his banner and I think that the sooner we strike, the easier it would be to defeat them."

A faint smile touched Sephiroth's lips. "I have taught you well. Tomorrow evening my army will lay siege to Chateau d'Argilly."

"But Genesis…"

"Do not worry about him. I have thought of a plan."

Five corner towers, twofold row of walls, and a small army within those walls. It couldn't be too bad. Sephiroth chuckled at his reflections and dismissed the youth with a gesture.

Suddenly Alber prostrated himself before the silver-haired knight and clenched his bare hand, face awry with grief. Sephiroth arched an eyebrow at the unexpected outburst, but before he could ask, his squire forced a quiet, "Messire, be so kind, let me bury my brother. He died yesterday at night."

"How did you know?"

"Forgive me, messire, for I took Jean with me." Tears began streaming down from hazel eyes. "I thought I could help him, despite knowing that he fell into disgrace, but I was not able to. Forgive him and forgive me."

"You can bury him, Alber. There is a graveyard outside the village, and here is gold to find a priest."

His squire wiped the tears and resolutely accepted the gold.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. May I… may I hope you forgot his treason?"

Viscount du Bugey nodded. "I don't condemn the dead."

When Alber left, Sephiroth followed him to the threshold. The night was quiet and peaceful. And so he stood, looking into the distance, and slowly, gently snowflakes fell on his hair and glistened.

* * *

Genesis was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, yet possessed no power to break the chains of the overwhelming slumber. He wanted to run, but had no power to move his leaden feet. The dream was so real.

Sephiroth floated in crimson-tinged darkness. A poignant grimace was frozen on his angelic visage, pallor of lifeless lips vying with whiteness of his skin. Green eyes were wide with agony, and on the thick fringe of eyelashes trembled the bloody dew of tears. Rooted to the ground by insuperable fear, Genesis could not move or look down, knowing that he would see a careful, almost perfect cut around his lover's alabaster neck. The rest of his lover's body swam in an eerie silver halo.

A rasping remark awoke him like a tub of cold water poured over his broken body. "Food, spongers and dirty scumbags. Food, lazy urchins and ragamuffins. His Majesty is very generous today. Get your grub before he changed his mind!" Banging on doors with tin bowls, a warden was walking down the corridor. Genesis opened his eyes and moved, immediately regretting his decision. After two days of torture, his body was full of pain, ripe as an ugly abscess. His mind was numb, his eyes – shards of sharp ice, and in the blue depth only one desire was still alive, an unquenchable will to survive. When a bowl was shoved under the door, he stretched his arm and avidly pressed his lips to the warm metal. The soup from bran was tasteless, but at least it was hot and edible.

Yesterday the king put him into another dungeon and even provided with a warm woolen blanket. It was obvious Philippe was afraid he would die. Their last meeting gave forlorn hope and at the same time inspired with fright. Although his back was burnt and bled, Genesis still remained obstinately silent to preserve what Sephiroth deserved - a victory. Then the king threatened to use a Spanish boot, which would leave the redhead crippled for life if he didn't come up with something.

He thought about it for the last two days. All he needed to give to those dogs was a bleeding gob of a carefully conjured half-truth.

Trying to shake the haunting fear from the dream he saw, Genesis wrapped himself into the blanket and shrank in the corner. He was determined to fight until his broken fingers would no longer have strength to clutch at the slippery rock he once called life.

Marguerite came down to pay him a visit in the afternoon. At first, Genesis confused her with the warden, but the voice – _that_ voice – dispelled all doubts at once.

"Is it true you that love him so much?" She clenched the rods of the guarded window. Her face neared the gaps in the lattice - unhealthy whiteness of skin and night of hollow eyes. "Tell me, Genesis. Do you love him as I did, when I was ready to give my life for just one favorable glance of those frightening eyes? Those bright, alluring eyes, in which you could see the whole world?"

The redhead stirred. Pain stung him with its poisonous sting at once and he barely stifled a moan. What did his lover's stepmother want to achieve by this pointless conversation? With the same result he could be asking what madmen wanted to achieve in general.

"Of course I do," his voice was hoarse. "Do you think this is not a proof of my words?" He gestured to the prison cell and his wounds.

"Then it should be your curse as much as mine!"

"Do you think he will forgive you?"

"He won't, but I no longer seek his forgiveness. God will be our judge!" She proclaimed solemnly.

Like a dispassionate mirror, the redhead's face reflected pity. He hated this foolish woman and pitied her at the same time, for there was a strange kinship between them, a peculiar, defective bond.

"What do I owe your presence, Marguerite? Did you come to ask me to join your insane plan to bring God's justice? If so," he added scathingly, "then you are wasting your precious breath."

"No," she giggled. "I wanted to tell you that your love is your sentence. Sephiroth will be here in the evening. If Philippe does not agree with him on terms of surrender, you will burn on the dawn of the next day. You will burn in the flames of your love and faith, like your sordid mother once did!"

"And like you, Marguerite."

"What do you know of me, mendacious monk?"

"I know enough to tell you that we will all burn."

"You still have faith in him, don't you?"

"If not in him, what should I believe in?"

"In God! Only God is real!" She screamed and dashed towards the exit door.

Genesis tried to rise, but his knees wobbled from weakness. Having fallen in the corner he sat in during the whole conversation, he froze, staring into the emptiness. Thoughts were like droplets, escaping his grasp. If the redhead lost faith in his lover, his enemy would win without even lifting a sword. That feeling was the worst torment. At least he wasn't hearing voices of priests he mercilessly killed. Even they faded under pressure of pain and new memories.

And Genesis made himself remember, calling for the reminiscences one by one from the depth of his memory, backwards. From the peaceful morning of the day he was captured to the battle at Crecy, to his first meeting with Sephiroth. And there it was, among a jumbled clew - a clear thread, so frail and thin. When Sephiroth looked at him for the first time, Genesis thought he saw stars blinking in the evening haze. He did not know they could shine so close to Earth. He knew gods could be so human, but he did not know that men could be so divine.

If he had no faith in Sephiroth, then nothing was worth his faith.

* * *

At dawn, the army was on the march anew. The scouts returned with reports about the enemy's movements and it only assured Sephiroth he had to act quickly. Based on their reports, he chose a route for his cavalry, which would, as per usual, ride first, the infantry following. He expected the last lunge to be swift and bloodless. The viscount could feel anxiety growing and not only his own. The winter was becoming colder every day; they were low on supplies, which meant he had to start requisitions, especially on his way to Avignon. It meant villages would burn, like in Flanders, and his responsibility was to decrease the number of casualties.

At dawn, the army was on the march. Heavy soldier's boots meted out league after league, hooves hit against the frozen ground with bewitching unity and obstinacy. From bird's eye view, they resembled dark, moving snowdrifts, wrapped in sheepskin coats and cloaks. Easy was the soldier's lot – all they knew was marching, obeying orders, and collecting the loot; drinking hard after the victory or dangling on gibbets after the defeat. Carefree was the soldier's lot – decide nothing, desire nothing, die for someone else's whim. At times, Sephiroth envied the soldiers, his obedient puppets, and yet knew that the role of a puppet could no longer satisfy him. He had been playing one for too long at the French court.

At dawn, the army was on the march, and in the afternoon they happened upon the enemy's rearguard. Having drawn away, horses were trotting along the hilly plain, which in summer would be swampy; now it stood gray and barren. The cold wind played with flaps of cloaks and the huge linen of his indigo banner. Suddenly, two scouts on lathery horses appeared, swinging their arms and screaming.

"Frenchmen! Frenchmen!"

Although the French Constable was in the captivity of Edward III, forces of the Count of Eu didn't leave Philippe's side. Horsemen in his colors followed, riders firing their crossbows on the go and as Sephiroth watched, one of the scouts flung his arms and collapsed with a bolt in his back. The enemies noticed them as well, a force obviously larger than they expected. Galloping steeds halted abruptly, bucking; the formation lost its order, horsemen screamed, 'Fall back! Fall back!'

Too late.

Sephiroth waved his hand and a dozen of the Duke's cavalrymen rushed forward, overtaking the hapless enemy. The skirmish was short and bloody; the Count's vassals were slaughtered while Sephiroth lost a knight and two horses. One was shot from the crossbows, the other – fell under the weight of the knight in full armor.

The viscount ordered a short halt.

"Why didn't you warn me?" He addressed the one surviving scout. Green eyes flashed fire. "I am giving out rations and gold to my scouts so that they would keep me informed about the presence of the enemy. Answer me!"

The scout was profuse in his awkward apologies, which Sephiroth interrupted with an angry gesture. Because of his anxiety for his lover's fate, feelings easily slipped out of his usually iron grip.

"What is the size of the rearguard?"

"It's about seven hundred of the enemy's infantry and crossbowmen against three hundred horsemen at our disposal," the color of the scout's face vied with the color of a dead man's visage and for a reason. Their main forces lagged behind and it would take a few hours before the Duke of Burgundy and Sir Jean caught up with them.

"Prepare the attack." The scout convulsively nodded and played a shrill melody on his bugle. "As a punishment, you will ride in the front row."

It was equipotent to a death sentence.

"Your Majesty," a baron to his left attempted to thrust his word, "it is too dangerous. Maybe, you should…"

Sephiroth didn't deign to glance at the speaker. The cavalry hastily assumed formation. Snorting, the horses serried around the silver-haired viscount; a sea of dark bodies boiled and, foaming, poured down the hill. Bolts flew towards them, short, black lightnings whizzing through the air. A few knights tumbled over. The damage would be more devastating, but the crossbowmen lost their advantage, climbing uphill. As always, Sephiroth managed to choose the position where his enemy would be at the most disadvantage even with superior numbers.

The wedge of cavalrymen cut into the scattered, unprepared infantrymen and breached their rows through and through. The lacerated edges of rapture became stained with blood; the disorderly formation broke, small figures running every which way in hope to gather and retaliate. In the swath of bodies, the silver-haired viscount left another couple of his knights.

Sephiroth raised himself in the stirrups and swung his flamboyant sword. The cavalry obediently eased down and turned around. In the meanwhile, the enemy used the delay to close their ranks and fire another swarm of bolts at them. The king's forces were still superior in numbers and Viscount dy Bugey forfeited his advantage. The first row knelt down, covering themselves with shields, while the second bristled with spears.

It seemed the time had slowed down its fly. The enemies closed in on each other once more. Lances struck together, piercing horses' abdomens as they tried to jump over the first rows; infantrymen fell under the hooves with fractured skulls and transfixed chests. Rows intermingled, and soon it was impossible to tell an enemy from an ally or a knight from a commoner.

Sephiroth was in the heart of battle. His sword flitted, rising and falling, and no one could withstand his onrush. It seemed he was not a mere human, fighting. No armor could sustain his blows; shields crumbled, breastplates and hauberks cracked, and helmets burst with steel shards. Having chopped off the shafts of lances, the viscount wedged his horse into the gap and swung the bastard sword. Befuddled infantrymen did not notice where death came from. However, their commander was not a fool; immediately, additional forces arrived and a few crossbow bolts flew past, one brushing against his shield.

Carried away by slaughter, Sephiroth belatedly noticed the danger; when he did, his left flank was nearly overrun by opposing Frenchmen. Having halted in the middle of the bloody mayhem, the knight abruptly drew the rein and dug his spurs into the steed's side. Pushing the fighting knights aside, he rushed towards the confused ranks.

Suddenly the chalice of skies turned over; gray clouds disappeared from view, supplanted by the sight of beaten snow. A wave of locks fell on his forehead, clouding his vision with silver. Pain echoed through the knight's body, but Sephiroth hastily freed his leg from the stirrups and, having grabbed the shield, rose, leaning against his sword. His faithful jet-black steed was twitching in agony with a black bolt protruding from its slender neck.

Enraged, emotions gaining an overwhelming reign over his body, Sephiroth attacked the nearest group of infantrymen. His first swing scattered his opponents, his second – crushed the chain mails, his third, delivered athwart, cut through chests and limbs. Staggering, the Frenchmen serried, attempted to get close, but to no avail. The knight's movements were fluid, unnoticeable, a gentle blow of wind or mockery of a draught, only men were falling and falling, lavishly strewing the ground.

It happened before he knew it. Sephiroth had just slain a knight and another one pounced upon him with fury. The silver-haired viscount swung his sword to parry, when a crossbowman dashed out of nowhere, took aim. The viscount missed a blow, which harmlessly slid along his cuirass and chain mail; turning slowly, too slowly, he raised his shield in time to catch a bolt. The iron head punched a hole in his ancestral coat of arms and mockingly stared at him through the slit in the wood. His enemy recovered, thrust forward. Having dived under the arm, the viscount plunged his flamboyant blade into the Frenchmen's side. At that very moment, the crossbowmen aimed at him again. Sephiroth had no time to turn, let alone defend himself. Time froze and in that moment, long and short at the same time, another bolt cut the still air, stung the marksman's neck. Staggering, he slumped onto the ground at Alber's feet. Breathing heavily, the youth stood, looking at his doing and at his liege, knowing he had just saved him, if not from death, then at least from an unpleasant injury. Thereupon he threw the crossbow aside and neared the silver-haired knight, leading a chestnut by the bridle. The lathered horse obstinately snorted, but the viscount managed to calm it down.

"It's not your steed, messire, but at least a good replacement for now."

Sephiroth gratefully nodded and with his squire's help saddled the mount. Alber played a short tune on his bugle, and his vassals answered his call at once. The wings of cavalry girdled the retreating forces, squeezed, as if it was a ripe grape; and like a ripe berry, it burst with crimson moist. Steeds carried them into the battle again, side by side. Alber, intoxicated with the excitement of battle, was vehemently swinging his short sword. He killed without looking.

And so did Sephiroth.

When the last center of resistance was annihilated, Viscount du Bugey dismounted to accept the surrender of Constable's forces. They yielded obediently, even if looked downcast.

"Who commands this detachment?" Sephiroth spoke to one of the prisoners.

"He died in the first assault, messire."

Shaking his head, the silver-haired knight turned to his squire. The youth looked pale, but otherwise calm. The battle affected him as it did Sephiroth, yet its true effect would be felt later, when the excitement wore out.

"We won, Your Majesty."

The youth forced a painful smile. A short shaft protruded from his forearm.

"What's wrong, Alber?"

"It is just a scratch, messire. I will be all right." With a grimace Alber pulled the shaft out, stoically bearing the look of blood oozing from the wound. "It will heal in no time. I was more worried about you, Your Majesty."

In hazel pools of the youth's eyes swashed a wave of fear to lose him so easily.

The decision came to his mind suddenly.

"Alber, kneel."

"Messire, what…"

Sephiroth got a better grip of the bloodied sword he hadn't sheathed, pointing to the youth's chest. "Kneel."

Alber helplessly gasped. "Messire, you cannot possibly think…" Then he flapped down on his knees into the thawing, dirty snow.

"In the name of God, I, Sephiroth Mensil, Viscount du Bugey, Dei gratia the regent of Nevers and Flanders, confer knighthood upon this valiant squire, Alber of Lefevre family, who served me well and whom I found to be loyal, honest, and worthy of the title. Rise."

The youth gripped the tip of the sword set against his shoulder pad. "You are too kind, Your Majesty," his voice shook, eyes aglisten with treacherous moist. "I did not deserve…"

Sephiroth gently removed the sword and averted his face from the motionless youth.

"Rise, Sir Alber. It doesn't befit a knight to kneel even before his king."

Yet, Alber stubbornly continued to stare at the knight's back even as its holder pinpointed out of sight. Awe shined in his eyes, his throat constricted from the mixture of feelings – sadness, anguish, triumph – all blending into one emotion without a name; and his heart palpitated faster, stronger. Alber was ready to give his life for his liege before. Now the readiness became a desire.

After all, was there a fate greater and loftier than to die for such a king?

In less then an hour, they buried the dead, took the wounded, and headed for Chateau d'Agrilly as though nothing had happened.

* * *

"I will comply with your demands."

Genesis entered the room with a slight stagger to his usually graceful gait. Every movement elicited pain, which overpowered even numbness. Philippe greeted him with a magnanimous smile and a fleeting glance. He was dressed in a luxurious dark-green cotardie, adorned with jewelry and girded with a suede belt. A small sword was unambiguously affixed to it, but even if the king was unarmed, the redhead wouldn't be able to escape, for his hands and feet were chained.

"Come and look, Genesis."

The redhead obeyed and, having wearily approached the arch of the lancet window, looked out. Below, people were bustling like ants around an anthill, building fences, raising marquees, and digging fosses. The last sunray unripped the leaden cloud and fell upon the glass, reviving the dead tracery of grape vines. A living picture on the stone wall.

"This is Sephiroth's army." Genesis' heart was unevenly throbbing in his throat, for it meant that his lover came for him.

"It is." Philippe cheerfully confirmed. The king seemed unconcerned by that fact. "I want you to look at it; to look carefully, knowing that this might be the last time you will see Sephiroth free, and make a decision. I won't rush you."

"Why?"

"I already know the answer. Marguerite, this poor lost soul, tells me not to trust you, but I understand that you don't have a choice. None desires to be mutilated for the rest of their lives even in the name of love, a pretty tale for chivalrous knights."

"You guessed correctly."

The French King drummed his fingers on the windowsill. The sound reminded Genesis of rain.

"What can you tell me?"

Sephiroth came for him, despite their lies. Something inside him sang an early, shy song. Faith.

"He will try to outwit you, prepare a trap. Nothing he does is unreasonable; everything he does is an enigma. I cannot help you more, Philippe de Valois, even if I wanted to." The redhead looked out of the window at the twilight skies. "Beware of a trap whenever you meet him, in person or in battle. He will ambush you or attack from the rear; he will play with you, deceive you, and disguise a preventive blow as the main strike. Like this, he already triumphed over Edward."

A smile akin to a mask played across Genesis' lips.

* * *

The wind was playing with the flap of the marquee, throwing heavy, wet snowflakes against the cloth. Sephiroth reposed himself on the bedding half-asleep, covered with a mantle of silver hair. Embers in the braziers lavishly shared their welcoming warmth, reminding him of times when he spent evenings with Genesis. His lover was stolen from him just a few days ago, yet at times the viscount felt as if it had happened a long time – weeks, maybe, months – ago.

One of Sephiroth's hands rested on the empty spot, fingers absent-mindedly moving along the sheet. It was so easy to imagine his redheaded lover curled there in a languishing, tempting pose, his head thrown back in the pool of molten gold of his hair. Even the smallest of details were imprinted in Sephiroth's memory, and those details were the most painful. He had promised Genesis…

In a swift, angry gesture Sephiroth threw back the covers and rose.

"Sir Alber."

His squire, recently dubbed, lifted his head from the chess game he was playing with himself.

"Are you dissatisfied with something, messire?"

"Summon the Duke and Sir Jean de Vienne."

Both came to his marquee without retinues; they understood what it would be talked about.

"Who is responsible for today's negligence?"

Both were silent until Odo of Burgundy finally spoke. "Scouts of John de Armagnac, Your Majesty."

"I want them punished." Neither the words, nor the tone, with which they were spoken, left room for objections and doubts.

"But one of them was killed, two others – wounded, and…"

"I want them flogged."

"Your Majesty," Sir Jean sounded indignant, "this is public humiliation. They are of noble blood."

"If that's the case, well and good," Sephiroth coupled his fingers and turned aside. "I will not bear any mistakes during this campaign."

He was too angry, even if it never showed. When both of his allies left, Viscount du Bugey returned to his usual pastime. He was thinking, weighing down the opportunities and outcomes of each move he made. It was clear that the moment his troops assaulted Chateau d'Agrilly, Philippe would execute his lover. He would burn Genesis on a stake as a heretic; so the last letter they had exchanged said. It was time to decide; Viscout du Bugey knew everything he needed to make up his mind, and yet… certainty did not hurry.

In the adjacent part of his marquee, Sephiroth's keen hearing picked up faint sobs. Alber was crying, mourning his lost brother. The viscount could not allow himself such liberty even in short paroxysms of pain. What if it was too late? Thereof Sephiroth forbade himself to think.

Brilliance defied any theory, which existed prior to the coming of genius. He was given his talent, his _coup d'oeil,_ which he perfected over the years, to bend circumstances to his will, not to sit in his marquee, waiting until something happened and resolved the conflict.

It cost him all he knew to restrain his tumult, to clear his mind. And then he saw it, a plan he was looking for. It was still a shy sprout of thought, but even in this nascent stage it gave Sephiroth confidence. The plan was simple, but hard to execute. If he failed this time, then Genesis was doomed and he wouldn't be able to keep the promise. Then all his effort was useless.

Hastily, Sephrioth approached the table, sat on the chair and wrote.

_I would like to meet in person to discuss the conditions of my surrender._


	41. Chapter XL: To hell and below, III

_**A/N**:_ I am a nutcase when it comes to canon Sephiroth (duh, that's new!). So his little megalomaniac speech purposely echoes canon. I sort of like it that way. **Warning:** gore, intense death themes. Anyhow, special gratitude, as always, goes to my wonderful beta, AlexJ69.

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Veni, vidi, vici __(Lat.) - _I came, I saw, I conquered. (Julius Caesar).

_Hecantochires_ – the 'hundred-handed ones'. In Greek mythology, they were children of Gaia, Earth, and Uranus, Sky; three giants of incredible strength and ferocity.

* * *

_**Chapter XL.**_

_**To hell and below.**_

_**Part III.**_

_The shriveled face, wrapped in paper-thin, sallow skin, didn't resemble his brother's. Expressionless, it balanced on a thin boundary between infantile and anile; as if a skilful craftsman sculpted a replica of Jean's face from wax, having forgotten to add a single sign of life._

_Blow on it and it will crumble away._

_Loki said it was the infection which ate his brother from the inside, however, Alber knew the truth, from which it was useless to run and which was hard to bound by chains of reason. When the will for life is lost, when the spark within dies, the disease is but an instrument of a sentence. His brother, his little, naive brother, condemned himself._

_It didn't make the realization easier. When at dawn Alber found his brother's cold body, lying on the heap of cloth with his mouth agape and protuberant eyes, he was seized by fright so great it took him long minutes to overcome it._

_Grief overwhelmed him much later._

_A withered face, skin of the same color parchment manuscripts had after being stored in the libraries for centuries, a muttering priest – all seemed a bad dream, whereafter he would awake with a scream and perspiring forehead._

_Cold. Why was he so cold?_

"…_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.__"_

"_Amen."_

_Alber repeated nearly soundlessly and clenched his fingers around a handful of soft dirt. Unclenching them, he watched the black rain of flakes fall onto his brother's face._

_'Wake up, Jean. Wake up. Please.' The youth found himself thinking with desperation; in the morning he was screaming and shaking his brother's shoulders. Now only a soundless thought remained as he picked up a spade and began shoveling dirt into the small grave._

_Biting stars looked down upon him through rents in the thick blanket of clouds; looked with sadness, and to himself, Alber suddenly seemed so small and insignificant, and the stars – so distant and immense, bestrewing the road into eternity._

_His brother was resting in Paradise. When God tore the thread of his life, Alber would find him._

_Be it in a few days or in a few decades, but they would meet._

* * *

_...Why? Why did Jean die so young? I don't understand, God, why… We are dust under your feet, a voiceless throng of faithful servants, but may I humbly ask… just one question my faith cannot accept… why…_

_Why?_

"Young master is sad again," Loki stretched his hands to the smoldering fires and rubbed them. Blood and dirt stuck to his skin, ate into the coarse wrinkles, and the stains seemed impossible to be washed off. Water boiled on another fire and in its crimson sheens various instruments glistened rapaciously. "Why did you come?"

"I…" words were stuck in Alber's throat. "I wanted to help."

"Help? Loki can heal their bodies, but Loki has no power over their souls. People are strange, inexplicable creatures. You patch them up, but they go and die regardless."

It happened by itself that the peasant assumed a role of a healer in Sephiroth's army, only one could doubt whether he was anything but a quack.

"Still, let me help," Alber obstinately insisted and finally got his own way when Loki picked up the instruments and waved his hand.

"Then come with me."

It was late night and the noble pile of a castle gloomily loomed in front of them. A whitish spot on starless welkin, the newborn moon hung above the shapeless outlines, spilling its sharp light onto the frozen ground. The air was unnaturally still and crispy, and footfall echoed through it freely, loudly, being the only sound of life. 'Twas such a delusion. Life hid behind the flaps of tabernacles, in-between which Loki guided him with habitual ease. Life laughed, choking with cheap beer, awkwardly copulated on a dirty bed, and tossed in fever, cursing or beseeching God.

Life was everywhere, aside from Alber's heart.

Soon they found the marquee Loki was looking for. It was at least twice as long as tents that belonged to the nobility. Inside, beds were lined up along the walls, and heavy, clinging odor hung over them like a palpable veil. On bloodied rags, valor and brilliance slowly rotted alive in mutilated carcasses, honor breathed its last, and the zeal of youth found eternal peace. Knights were interspersed with commoners, moribund – with the convalescent, and human titles or merits were worthless before the face of death. As a reaper in a black mantle, as an angel with a flaming sword – as a living entity under protean masks – death was depicted by poets and artists of the yore more human, more tangible, with a semblance of a mind to give others forlorn hope it could be bargained with and even cheated. Thereat, gazing at the feverish, glistening faces, Alber did not think that way. Thereat death was omnipotent. He hastily crossed himself and followed Loki.

Dark, hooded figures moved to and fro, leaning over the bodies and whispering dispassionate prayers into half-deaf ears. The youth passed by them and in their faces he saw less signs of life than in some cadavers; even less life than in a face of a man they came to heal. He had to have been a squire, too young to be a viscount or a baron with an estate, and his garments bore no personal coats of arms. A light-green, flaxen shirt was drenched in blood, and when Loki cut it with a sharp lancet, the youth opened his eyes. For a heartbeat, Alber thought he saw Jean.

"What do you want? Did you bring my wife?" Hot, chapped lips barely moved, and the sound passing them, resembled a weak croak.

Loki glanced at the wound and pursed his lips. Alber craned up to take a better look at it, but recoiled there and then, feeling something heavy and hot rise in his throat. The lower part of the man's arm was a jumble of shattered bones and flesh, lavishly covered in the crust of dried blood.

"Me cut it off," speaking, Loki uncorked a wine bottle and poured the contents into a basin. Having dipped the lancet into hot water, he made a thin cut on the youth's healthy forearm, letting the crimson moist ooze freely. From time immemorial, bloodletting was one of the most effective anti-fever methods known in medicine.

"No." The injured moaned. "Leave me be, good sire, and go your way."

Loki swilled out the lancet's blade in wine. "Little master came to help, didn't he?" Alber swallowed another lump of bile and nodded. "Then hold him."

Against his will, the youth's hands twitched and moved, slowly, like in slumber, pressed something shaky and warm to the bed with all the strength there was in him. His gaze was riveted on an unobtrusive figure in the hood. Now Alber's only wish was to go deaf to the desperate pleas.

"No! In nomine Dei, don't touch my arm," the youth on the bedding jerked his head up, and glassy, doll-like eyes stared into Alber's. He was dying, the squire suddenly thought, and he looked just like Jean. "I don't want it. Please!"

"Choose life or death, young master." A short, cackling sound, and Loki was looming above the sprawled body, lancet bare in his callous hand. "Life or death."

"Life." Alber whispered.

"Let go of me. I don't want to live like that, mutilated, disgraced. If you have a whit of mercy left in your heart, sire, and if such is my lot, please, let me die in peace."

He came here to help, didn't he; to help someone in his brother's stead, for he could no longer help Jean. He came here for absolution.

"Life, Loki. I beg you."

"No!"

Alber felt as though he was a huckster on a market, wrangling over a few golden pellets_. I was supposed to have come to help someone, but instead... why, oh God, why do I feel like I only make matters worse?_

_Why am I so useless and helpless?_

Loki chose a heavier instrument with a notched blade and made the first cut. A harrowing shriek tore through Alber's ears, the body underneath twitched in violent throes and then convulsions slackened, passing into weeping. Two wet streaks, tears were streaming down the cheeks of the wounded man, but somehow Alber could taste salt in his own mouth.

"No..."

Spattered with blood, the jagged lancet moved again, notches sinking into the white bone. The man bit his lip until crimson liquid exuded from the flesh, stained his chin. "It hurts, stop it, oh merciful God! Stop it!"

The lancet finished its pattern, detaching the piece of flesh, which landed on the floor with a dull thud. The stump was bleeding profusely, and if the life was not to be forfeited after the effort was made to save it, Loki used a no less painful method to stop the haemorrhage. Cauterizing.

When the scorching metal touched the wound, blood hissed, boiling, and with another heart-rending cry the man stilled in Alber's hands; but although he moved no more, having fainted from pain and blood loss, the youth continued holding him, almost cradling in his arms, until someone's palm touched his shoulder.

"Young master should sleep. Neither he, nor Loki can help this lad. His life is in the hands of the Almighty now."

The youth recoiled from the ugly commoner, whose hands were soiled in vermillion, but then he looked at his palms and they were the same – the same, loathsome stains spreading on his skin and eating into it forevermore. Hands, already stained with blood of his liege – blood he deemed almost sacred. Was there an absolution painful enough to deliver him from the torments of his soul – from guilt and grief – and leave him cleansed anew, the reminiscences of his transgressions all but forgotten? Alber has already decided. When the war is over, he will marry a baroness and build a castle on the piece of land his sovereign will give him. He will lead a good life to atone for everything he had done.

The youth finally took heart to leave. By the threshold he turned around and peered into darkness. He saw nothing, not even a face, but then a tenacious sound reached his ears, sinking deeply into his memory. The young man without an arm was now singing, or, rather, pushing discordant sounds out of his bleeding mouth, and in every one there was pain and despair, and plaintive beauty. So sang English prisoners before execution, beautifully, poignantly, leaving shreds of life in every verse, in every breath.

Alber hated seeing this second face of the war unmasked, but loved Sephiroth.

And then he simply wanted to help; whom and why, 'twas not at all important.

* * *

All settlements, however small, returned to life with the dawn. When the sun rays gilded the polished domes of cathedrals and sneaked into windows, streets and alleys filled with bustle. Dawn tore people of all social origins out of their beds and threw them into the unstoppable whirl of life.

The only dwellings to remain lifeless were those, whereof only burnt ruins had been left standing in the wake of a new day.

The outskirts of Chateau d'Agrilly became desolated. The huts stood abandoned, barns – empty, and only rarely Sephiroth caught sight of a homeless cat or dog timorously shrinking in the corners. Each step followed by faint clangs of steel, the viscount strode further and further into the wasteland that rose in the settlement's stead once his troops besieged the castle. The houses forlornly huddled up to each other and unlocked doors creaked when wind blew over the street. It reeked of despair and sewage. Black spots of trees loomed outside the nameless village, swinging in the breeze, lonely, abandoned in their own way. With aloofness, Sephiroth thought how many more burnt and empty settlements they would leave before this war ended.

The guards trailed far behind the silver-haired knight. Viscount du Bugey ordered them not to disturb his contemplation, having agreed to take them only to ensure his own safety.

"What do you want, Your Majesty? Answer me honestly. 'Tis the time you can speak candidly, for no one hears us now. I surmise this is why you called me to this desolated place."

The Duke. A few steps on the snow, heavy, belonging to a mailed man, slight thrum of steel trinkets humans believed to be so very significant, and then – his voice.

_Answer me honestly._

"What do I want? I want the monarchy to be absolute, Odo." He suddenly burst out, no longer able to keep the words inside, to bury his vision underneath the shroud of indifference – at least, not today. "Is there intent more noble than to finish the outsets of your father? In my vision, there will be no higher authority than the king's and not even the Pope will have a semblance of my power. The clergy will keep a few privileges, as will the free cities and guilds. Then I plan to join my ancestral lands in Flanders with the crown, leaving them to the care of my stepbrother.

I want to cast away the old freedoms and frivolities, immolate them in the name of unity and strength, exchange them for the awareness of the French nation, the very notion of which was sought by Charles the Great, but forgotten by his progeny. It was too early then, you are correct. The territory was vast, the unanimity – undermined, lacking, but now I clearly see the birth of a different world. What I want," Sephiroth fell silent and resumed speaking in a different – a tinge triumphant, low – voice," is to achieve what no one heretofore could, elevating France to the dominant role in Europe and watching other monarchies kneel before it or be forced to kneel, one by one but inescapably so, and then... then use your imagination, Odo. Palestine, overseas trade, spices – the whole world will be on your palm and all you'll have to do is clench it. _Veni, vidi, vici__._"

If Odo was confused, he ably concealed his feelings. "I would say the nobility isn't ready yet, however, I know how futile it is to voice out my vacillations. I bow before your vision of the future, for I cannot see beyond our final victory over the Englishmen. It means heads will roll, like in the times of your reputable father. I only hope they will not roll too fast, before your throne will be strengthened..."

"Do you have someone in mind you wanted to speak for?"

"Me? No, not at all... it was only a thought... Although at times, I catch myself wondering whether you possess devilish acumen, Your Majesty. What I meant… It is enough for you to say a word, and those you suspect of treason will be dispatched and replaced."

_Your allies are like circling vultures, waiting for the right moment to snap off a piece of the dead prey. If it were so easy..._

"I suspect no one and everyone, thus whereof we speak today has to remain clandestine. I made a decision to rescue Genesis."

For a moment Sephiroth stopped in his tracks. His plan was bold, bordering madness, but in it was his greatest hope. Boldness, this noble impulse, with which the human soul raised itself above the most formidable dangers; which gave weapons their edge, lent wings to the mind, and the farther those would reach in their flight, so much more comprehensive would be the view.

His plan was bold, but simple, as brilliant ideas often were; its simplicity consisted in giving the king what he desired most - and it was his surrender; in letting his enemies taste the victory only to watch if forever slip from their grasp.

There was silence between them, and only the faint melody of steel ringlets echoed in frozen air. Speaking of Genesis to an outsider felt wrong, inasmuch as it wasn't his habit to reveal feelings so personal to anyone, and yet the conversation was needed. Sephiroth could transgress the bounds of his habits and beliefs if pain and inconvenience were worth the outcome. "I will need your help, Odo, and unconditional trust."

The old Duke floundered, yet the wordless and bloodless duel didn't last long. There was something in that old man, which was endlessly fascinated by the silver-haired youth he had first seen a decade ago in a tournament and later on watched grow from a warrior to a king; grow incessantly to glory and then eventually to a lapse from virtue. Often, Odo would not admit of his envy, but he always wanted to have such a son. And now, when Sephiroth was asking, he felt like a father granting his son a long awaited wish. How could he refuse?

"Both as an ally and a friend – your friend and you father's – I would try to dissuade you from taking part in this risky venture if I didn't see that you again made up your mind. Your Majesty is free to do as you desire, and I would stand at your side even for this foolishness; even counter to what the common sense tells me."

Sephiroth stopped in front of a creaking door. "I am meeting the king tomorrow. I am taking the cavalry with me, leaving you in charge of my infantry."

"But Philippe will know it's a trap; he will take a great amount of forces with him… and you… " Then the Duke lapsed into silence, as if struck by a sudden lightning of an epiphany, which, most likely, he was. "Your Majesty, this is madness."

The left corner of Sephiroth's lips curved upwards, shaping an icy smile. "'Tis a maneuver Philippe de Valois cannot foresee. Cut off from the main forces, he will have to fight a decisive battle or abscond, but either way Genesis will be saved. Your task is to lead my troops into battle without me. I will provide you with the maps and details of the assault in the evening during the last military council. You cannot fail me, Odo. If you manage to follow my orders, this battle will be nearly bloodless. It is a risk I am willing to take."

"What it is to be young, Your Majesty! I no longer have that passion and boldness,"the old Duke said with sham humility, taking a seat at a nether step of a porch.

"You are not so bad yourself, Odo," he answered with a chuckle. His ally could be dishonest or greedy at times, but boldness he had in abundance.

And the Duke doubtlessly loved being complimented. With suddenly perky, youthful grin he slammed his palm against the wood of the porch. "Madness it is then. Somehow I feel my old bones won't grow too stiff if I continue serving Your Majesty. I will only advise to send the citizens of Calais into battle first – those callow warriors possess no true value."

Sephiroth shrugged. "Have it your way. I only need swift results."

Odo stared at him unusually intently. "I wouldn't wish to have you as an enemy, Your Majesty."

"And neither would I."

Viscount du Bugey watched his ally until his silhouette turned into a shapeless spot and vanished from sight.

'_What do you want, Your Majesty?' 'What I want is to claim what belongs to me by birthright…'_

Silver coldly glistened, having scattered on his shoulders like trickles of rainy water. Sephiroth raised his head, fastening his gaze upon the seamless garments of clouds and freezing, quiescent and yet in motion, every feature vibrant and eyes smoldering with barely hidden flames.

Somewhere there, beyond the castle walls, they kept his lover imprisoned, but no matter how thick were those walls and dungeons – deep, he would raze them to the ground.

Genesis awaited him, and Sephiroth hoped that something could still be salvaged...

* * *

…The king gave Genesis a piercing glance, as if attempting to skim through his thoughts, to ravage his brain, turn it inside out just to see that one answer. The redhead sat, numbly staring at his blackened from gore nails and fighting a wave of hatred so strong it seemed capable of breaking walls and instilling terror into armies. The slashed lip hurt and as he stirred, a crimson droplet rolled down his chin. His clothes turned into fetid rags, dirt stuck to his skin, but nothing seemed important, even pain; he got used to it as though it was his most faithful comrade and lover.

"What does this mean?" Philippe repeated angrily, but together with ire fright could be heard so very distinctly.

A few hours earlier, Sephiroth sent him a letter, a simple address to discuss the terms of his surrender, and it bereft the king of all calm. He was nervously pacing up and down one of the numerous rooms of Château d'Agrilly, arms locked behind his back, and like this, Philippe reminded Genesis of a trapped bird. His last question referred to the meaning of the letter, but even if the redhead were willing to help the French king, he would not be able to unwind his lover's mind. When circumstances demanded cold rationality, boldness of mind, and iron willpower, Sephiroth was unmatched. Guessing what was on his mind was as fruitful as looking into the black, quiescent waters, misguided by a meaningless eddy.

The redhead was certain of only one thing – Sephiroth would never surrender; where his place was in the viscount's plans was hard to tell, but Genesis had no strength to be angry with his lover.

"I have already told you to expect a…"

"… a trap. I know. When I meet him, I will be prepared for an ambush, taking my most loyal servants with me. But what else is he capable of?"

Genesis smiled. "You can ask Sephiroth himself equally well… or God."

"What utterly unacceptable insolence!" Philippe flung the letter away. Fear rang lucidly even in a threat. Fear was like emollient music to Genesis' ears.

"I don't know how else I can avail against him. I can only say that you'll have to meet Sephiroth on his conditions."

Philippe was silent awhile. "The letter suggests he wants to lure me out of my stronghold and easily capture outside the fortified walls. How bold and brazen it is of him, but I will be prepared and fight his forces with no less zeal. Sephiroth will be unpleasantly surprised tomorrow. So pray to all Saints, Genesis." The king regained his composure and his jaw hardened. "If your advice helps me outwit him, I will set you free. If it doesn't, you will burn."

'_There is no pain_,' Genesis told himself to curb the hatred. Clenching his hand into a fist helped. '_No humiliation. There is but one defeated king and his successor. All else is non-existent._'

A smile adhered to his lips, a hollow mask he could not tear off even with his fingers…

Later, in his cell, Genesis returned to this meaningless conversation with the king in his thoughts, snatching at every hope to understand what his lover had conceived. They were complicated, fanciful, like salient curlicues in God's handwriting. Understanding Sephiroth was at times harder than trying to read an old manuscript in a language he had barely known.

If only his lover knew how much was sacrificed for their love and how much pain he went through and still was incapable of seeing and appreciating it; if Viscount du Bugey abandoned him to his fate, there would be no end to Genesis' hatred. Last weirs would be broken, last faith – betrayed, that kind of faith he still had counter to every part of his soul that screamed he should not trust his lover. Not that the redhead had a choice in the matter.

Genesis raised his head and peered into the darkness, past the mephitis of waste and clouds of his breath.

And there he saw Sephiroth.

He sat by the guarded window, and falling moonlight smoothed out the tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the sharp outline of his lips, accentuating something superior to age in his face. A short silver lock streamed down his cheek, but when Genesis stretched his hand to brush it off, the mirage disappeared.

The long forgotten sliver fell onto the floor, the side with an engraving facing upwards.

_Veritas._

Truth.

* * *

"Alber, you are coming with me."

The youth made a deep bow, "Your Highness."

The Duke of Burgundy silently gestured towards the door of a hut they occupied for the night. The youth picked up his short sword and straightened a baldric for the bugle.

It was dawning, but in the fog dark figures were already moving, and from everywhere clangs of steel and muffled orders were heard. The encampment lived its own life, the early hour notwithstanding. Fear inundated the youth's heart, when he realized that it was already morning and his master decided to carry out his plan all the same. The night before, Sephiroth had but one request – one of those, spoken like a request, yet implied as an order the youth could not disobey.

"_Battle well tomorrow, Alber, and see to it that Genesis returns to me unharmed."_ Said his liege and he promised. What a careless promise it turned out to be now, when the morning of the siege began.

"His Majesty has just left to meet with Philippe, who moved out an hour ago." Meanwhile, the Duke was explaining him what had happened, and it took Alber a moment to realize why his master's ally was addressing him as almost equal. He was knighted a few days ago. It seemed like a dream. "It is time to assume our positions. The batallies are ready, and God be with you."

They halted in a small coppice, where knights and levies amassed under the barren trees. Banners were folded, trumpeters stood silent, exhaling clouds of vapor; faces were expressionless, fingers – groping for swords or axes, eyes – fixed on the castle, where unsuspecting inhabitants were sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

"God be with us all."

The old Duke cast a supercilious glint at him. "You are not like your brother, and I see how Sephiroth can trust you with something so important as the life of that redheaded monk. I do not encourage it, yet am willing to condone that whim of his until it becomes a threat."

Alber wanted to object that his sovereign loved Genesis and their love wasn't a whim, but the words seemed strangely unfit for the occasion. Instead, he dropped his head onto his chest and mumbled a quick prayer.

The bloody harvest was ripe.

Odo of Burgundy signaled silently, and the agreed sign was passed down the rows of infantrymen. Strong hands picked up assault ladders, boots hit the frozen ground as one, and the throng poured out of the coppice, glistening as a steel snake. Clangs of hauberks and swords disturbed the silence, a seemingly innocuous melody foreshadowing a redoubtable tread of the Reaper. Unseen, the batailles quickly crossed the opening, where they would otherwise be vulnerable to the aimed fire of castle archers, where hundreds of them could have fallen, pierced by arrows or scorched by boiling tar, and reached the moat. Thereat the assailants lingered a bit, climbing over the mound and passing the assault ladders to those who had already crossed the fosse. Trained by Sephiroth in discipline and obedience, the knights fulfilled the Duke's orders quickly and soundlessly, therefore when Philippe's allies noticed them and sounded the alarm, the delay was already fatal.

Chateau d'Agrilly didn't expect a fight. Sleepy sentries were waking to the reality of the dawning day slowly, filling the air with belated screams. Shadows began moving in the fog, and at the same time Sephiroth's vassals leaned ladders against the fortified walls. Like ants, mailed figures ran towards them and crawled upwards, encumbered by the weight of their armor and therefore sluggishly.

Alber was among the first warriors to reach the walls. Someone pushed the young knight from behind, cursed, and suddenly the steps were right before his eyes, wooden bars, dented by mailed boots, creaking underneath the live carpet of bodies...

"Move, dolt, if you don't want to die!"

The hail barely registered in Alber's ears, yet helped come to his senses. Having firmly grabbed the ladder, he pulled himself up on the bar, lifting his leg to place it one step higher. Rhythmic footfall, its cadence in time with his heartbeat, was rising from behind, the sound swelling in his ears, gaining strength.

"Onward, brave knights! Death awaits!" Somebody screamed, more discordant voices blending with the first one. Rapture tore Alber's through chest, clenching his throat, and he felt like he could fly, omnipotent and invincible. "Death awaits!"

He had to have joined in a unanimous cry, and then there remained no room for rationality in his head. A miniscule droplet in a steel wave, which rose above the bastions and gushed onto the parapet wall, the youth flew up over the foaming crest and plunged into the deep of battle. The avalanche carried Alber along with everyone else, and had he wanted to turn around, forgetting that his intent could be deemed treacherous, the endeavor would be utterly futile. A dozen of the enemy's sentries was crushed with ease; the first screams of pain added to the vociferous mayhem, first bodies fell, flinging arms and legs, into the moat, and the blueness of ice was painted crimson. The youth unsheathed his sword, but didn't have time to spill even a droplet of blood; running towards the stairs, he stumbled over something, which turned out to be the trampled body of Philippe's vassal.

Masses pressed from behind, flushed, impatient knights elbowed their way through the crowd, and soon Alber lost sight of the Duke. Left on his own, he engaged in what everyone else did - killing anything that moved. Choking from the pace of attack, trumpeters played their bugles out of tune, and the enemy's buccinas screeched in response – a cracked bass of copper and shrewd hail of brass.

The first courtyard was quickly filling with Philippe's troops, and thereto the youth was carried by the torrent of inhuman power. The Duke's infantry struck into Philippe's flank, steel hit against steel, rage grappled with rage, the thirst for blood – with its twin sister. Alber waved away with his sword, felt the blade piercing something soft and barely leapt back before a heavy body fell on top and buried him, which meant certain death – if not smothered by the overwhelming weight, he would have unavoidably ended up trampled down. Someone was screaming to his left, someone drew back, running, but the youth was too engrossed in battle to pay attention. Spinning around, he parried thrusts and dodged blows, gasping for breath through the small, round chinks of his pot helmet. Once he missed a glancing blow, lucky that the knight ahead of him plunged his longsword into the man's abdomen, but the bruise hurt, slowing him down. Sweat clouded his eyes, arms were growing leaden, and yet the young knight kept defending himself, oblivious of wounds, if there were any, and choking on slime and blood.

Blood was not his.

Then a gap appeared in the throng as their breach reached the inner gates and died out near the fortified leaves. Philippe's forces were scattered about the first courtyard, lavishly strewn with corpses. Some were still fighting, others, not as hapless, fled before the inner gates closed, cutting off the doomed and abandoning them to death. But an order was an order, and the commander of Philippe's army in His Majesty's absence was no fool. He needed to hold until his liege's army returned, and it could be accomplished only if the remaining defenders sealed themselves inside the donjon.

In the meantime, Sephiroth's infantry was extinguishing the last seats of resistance. No one surrendered, no one ran – there was nowhere to run at that. The castle's inhabitants tried. As Alber skimmed the battle arena, a knight dragged a woman out of the hut by her hair and slit her throat, having thrown her body into the thawing dirt; his comrade in arms stepped over the motionless heap in a hurry to continue the slaughter.

_And I thought I would help... who, how... why..._

Something broken inside him attempted to scream, but only a whisper passed his lips. '_Why?_'

Above them, an indigo banner was victoriously fluttering in the wind, golden letters merrily laughing in clear sunlight.

_Veritas vos liberabit..._

The truth will set you free; embrace it fully, with your innermost core, and the puppeteer's strings will be cut; your tether will melt down in flames of liberation.

Always flames. Like those, which climbed the walls of wooden houses, shooting upwards in a silent, powerless threat to the skies. The Duke must have ordered to burn the dwellings, and his knights eagerly set to accomplish the task. The air burst with deafening cries - '_Long live the Duke of Burgundy!_' alternated with no less mettlesome, '_Sephiroth_!' and '_In the name of the king!_'. Those enemies, who ran, were killed, those, who didn't – burned, but the former at least died quicker. Then Sephiroth's proponents set about gathering the tubs with tar, which the defenders had no time to boil and pour onto the heads of assailants.

There always remains the question of price, the question about how many golden pellets there are in a clay bowl, and again you feel you are but a huckster on a market, trading souls and lives. Aren't you, Alber?

Genesis was laughing. Sephiroth stood reticent and aloof. None hurried to give him an answer.

Alber could not know that at the very same time another wave of attackers breached the enemy's defenses elsewhere.

Still, it was only half of a victory. The easiest half.

* * *

"Your Majesty."

They met in the middle of that ill-fated glade. Horsemen loomed behind each king – two straight lines of fearless hearts, encased in steel, and it mattered not that one king was anointed and the other – an impostor. Birth right was a prop too weak and unreliable, but combined with the power of a loyal army, it became strong enough to support a throne.

The divine and the lay powers together.

Philippe wore the replica of a crown, and his unpleasantly inquisitive and mistrustful eyes were as gimlets. Last time they met as a worthless puppet and its master, now – as equals, yet nothing changed in the king's composure – the same condescending glance and haughty bearing. If wars were won by arrogance only, Philippe de Valois would be unmatched. Anger nearly seethed inside, threatening to grip him entirely and guide his hand for a fatal blow. Sephiroth wanted to ask many questions – about the battle of Crecy, the siege of Calais, about his correspondence with the Pope, and most of all...

'_What did you do to Genesis?_'

Yet, in its stead...

"Your Majesty." A lie, easily escaping his lips. And a smile colder than ice. "We meet at last."

The wind shook the trees, and into silence fell a rustling waterfall of lustrous snow.

"What are you waiting for, insurgent? Lay down your arms, disband your allies and in the light of your achievements in the battle for Calais, I will consider sparing your life. Perhaps, I will confine myself to demanding a large fine, paid both in gold and land, and military service to the French crown until this foolish dynasty dispute would be settled."

Sephiroth shifted in his saddle. Inside, a tight spring was about to unwind, but he knew it was too early.

"I shall disband my army, but on one condition only. None of my allies would be punished, and I will pay a small fine of a thousand livres. Genesis will be returned to me unharmed. As for the war with the English king, I will take no part in it. After I defeated Edward, signing a peace treaty with him should not be very difficult, knowing your knack for diplomacy."

The king shut his ears to the knight's light gibe.

"You demand I turn a blind eye to outright disobedience! You know I will never stoop myself to that." Philippe's face flushed with anger; on his forehead swelled and throbbed the little vein. "My throne and authority was weakened, my title – challenged, and you dare demand..."

"They were following my orders, and therefore there is none of their fault in my doings."

"That insolent Duke is no vassal of yours!"

Two mounted guards froze to his left, two – to the right, one of them was a crossbowman. Trying to kill the king now equated immediate death. Fingers unnoticeable groped for the handle of the bastard sword, his other hand clenched the steed's bridle. His loyal army should have breached the castle's defenses, Genesis would be saved soon – if not already – thus the only remaining part was the one he had to play.

"It looks like our negotiations are a waste of invaluable time."

Nothing changed on Philippe's face. "I brought more than enough forces to give you a decisive battle now."

_So you had then, after all, swallowed the bait..._

"If I knew you were not a coward, I would offer to settle this misunderstanding in a face-to-face combat – just you and me – on a tiltyard."

"Of what honor do you speak, Viscount?" Philippe emphasized his lowly title. "It does not befit a king to meet with every scumbag in a fight."

He swallowed the insult; only the smile grew a tad wider. And a tad more frightening.

The knight chose this glade of a set purpose, for its disposition allowed him to know where exactly Philippe laid an ambush. There could be only one place – on both sides of the road – where the king's main forces would hide, awaiting their prey, happily oblivious that it was too large and ferocious.

What happens when a large prey falls into frail snare?

A smile... a vacant smile, akin to a mask, not to a genuine expression of mirth... Now...

Sephiroth fancied he heard a wolf – a satisfied grumble instead of a desperate, hungry howl. Now!

The spring of anxiety for his lover's fate and his campaign's success, of anger, which was born after the betrayal at Crecy, the spring he kept inside for too long, burst.

Those like him were too audacious, too malicious, too strong to obediently slip into oblivion, as if the very blood of the hundred-handed Hecantochires – the first children of Earth – ran in their veins.

The flamboyant sword flitted and fell athwart. Sephiroth didn't aim at the king – the latter wisely kept his distance – but at the careless guard who crossed the invisible circle, outside of which his thrust could not reach. The refulgent blade described a perfect arc and cleft the man from shoulder to chest. Death haughtily opened out its vermillion wings on the viscount's pectoral. The frightened horse dashed aside and galloped towards the forest, dragging the body by the leg, tangled in the stirrup. The only crossbowman shot without aiming and missed, having lost his chance, for neither Sephiroth, nor his retinue were going to wait until he reloaded.

Philippe's face contorted with ire and – for the first time since they met – with fear.

"I knew it was a trap!"

The black steed pranced, as the knight abruptly drew the rein and guided it towards his allies. Time was of the essence. Bugles struck up a tune, calling his vassals to serry and prepare for an attack. Should they break out of the awaited ambush, there would be no obstacle significant enough to stop them on the way to Chateau d'Agrilly.

Sephiroth took his shield out of baron's hands and shot a quick glance at the king's cavalry, which was slowly turning to bar their only way to escape. Thereto hurried the small figures of Philippe's infantry – the king did bring the significant part of his troops; perhaps, more than the viscount thought.

Yet, the turmoil didn't reflect on Sephiroth's stoic face, even when somebody frantically whispered, "There are too many of them, Your Majesty."


	42. Chapter XLI: To hell and below, IV

_**A/N: **_Yes, I know it was a long break… my apologies. This was one of the really important chapters, so I didn't want to rush it.

My gratitude goes to my wonderful beta, AlexJ69, as always. Thank you so much!

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Imperium Romanum Sacrum__ (Lat.) – _the Holy Roman Empire, later known as the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. The union of territories ceased to exist in 1806. If I am not mistaken, this is what was called the First Reich, Bismarck's being the Second, and Hitler's – the Third. Within the story's timeline, Louis IV (the Holy Roman Emperor) had a huge conflict with the Pope about who would basically be the head of the church.

* * *

_**Chapter XLI.**_

_**To hell and below.**_

_**Part IV.**_

Heavy steps followed one another in a maddening hurry, choking with pace and thirst to be faster. Genesis could not recognize Sephiroth's gait – light, airy, as though mocking the ground he trod on; the foreign, heavy footfall meant the king's guard was coming for him, bringing more torture and more humiliation. Those steps were drawing closer with each instant, and his heart was throbbing faster, and the quicker the blood pumped in his veins, inundating every part of his body and soul with enmity stronger than frail flesh. Genesis raised his hands, pressed them to his ears to drown all sound, deferring the verdict until the rusty door flung open and a low, gruff voice bellowed from the threshold. "Rise, half-wit!"

It fell upon him too fast, awakened out of the fragile slumber he was trying to find a brief escape in; it disoriented and confused, and enfeebled. Impatient, hardened hands picked him up; legs dragging on the floor, he was carried to the grating and through the dark corridors into the courtyard. Of that journey Genesis remembered only two colors - wet, dark-gray, with a greenish tinge of mold color of stones and the white, glittering shroud of snow. Screams and clangs of steel swelled in his ears, reminding him that a battle raged outside the walls of his prison, a prison soon to be exchanged for freedom, because Sephiroth would stop at nothing.

The redhead fell flat whereat the guards left him, head touching the snow. _What now?_ The answer to that question he found rather quickly; it came with the rustle of steps and cloth, with a shrill scream, "Burn him!"

He should have guessed that it would be her, the black crow and the harbinger of doom, who would deliver that answer. Genesis had much to say to Sephiroth's stepmother, but, clenching his teeth, forced himself to remain silent, drowning in the sudden flood of memories.

It was his first preceptor's fate that taught him when to talk, when to lie, and when to keep silent. Good father Clement loved speaking, knowing no measure; he spoke often and eagerly. He spoke to men, to women, to commoners, to monks. He spoke with genuine, God-given fervor. "Brothers and sisters," he called unto them, "look at the atrocities around you and ask yourself – did God want it? Did God send his Son to die in torment, crucified, so that you would use his name to crucify your children? With his arms outspread on the cross, embracing the whole world, the Almighty looks at you, begging, commanding you to stop. Stop before it is too late. Stop!"

He cried; he beat his head against the wall, spat blood and stubbornly spoke again, choking on his words. He smiled rarely; when he did, it was a smile of desperation, wry and forced. His every word was fire. He audaciously exposed the sins of the world to the soulless world.

None listened.

They were resting in a small village when the Inquisition finally captured them; who squealed on them, Genesis had never found out, but always suspected it was the miller's son who even looked like a well-fed rat. Good Inquisitors tortured father Clement with white-hot iron and stretched him on the rack; he spoke even then, pleaded them to stop the madness – not for his sake, but to save their souls.

None listened.

And down his throat they poured molten silver of his words; mercilessly.

Then Genesis understood the true meaning of the old proverb. Silence was more profitable.

Silence was golden.

"Silence is golden, Marguerite," he suddenly whispered, resurfacing from the bottomless ocean of his recollections. The smoldering coals of her gaze pinned him to the ground. She cocked her head, like a wilted bird, only no bird would look at him with a curiosity so morbid.

"What did you say?"

"God spoke to me. He told me that the sound of our voices is an insult to his divine hearing."

"So you finally heard Him." She knelt, taking his hands and gently squeezing them with fragile intimacy only soon-to-be first lovers could share. "And I thought you would forever remain deaf. Maybe, he forgave your transgressions. I prayed that he would." For a moment, when her lips caressed his frozen fingers, Genesis thought he would win, but as the words had once failed his preceptor, so they had failed him. "I pity you," continued Marguerite, "for your epiphany came with your death; for you will not live long enough to bathe in the joy of harking to His voice, of obeying His redoubtable will. Poor, lost child." She leapt to her feet and shouted to the guards, "Burn him! Demons should suffer in hell forever!"

Genesis swallowed the lump in his throat. It was true that the Inquisition rarely burnt its victims alive; at first, they were smothered in their cells, then the corpses were dragged into the square and set ablaze for the public's fun. Execution in flames was reserved for the stray, impenitent sinners, particularly refractory in their transgressions and disobedience, who acknowledged nothing but freedom or death or were not smart enough to acknowledge anything – the paupers, the freaks, the crippled and the leprous, those most dangerous creations of the Devil.

Marguerite equated him with them.

"No," Genesis whispered, shaking his head, as the guard's hands lifted him anew and carried to the hastily knocked up scaffold. The redhead denied the thought as he would reject anything absolutely preposterous and foreign, but the slippery worm of fright wriggled its way into the deepest layers of his mind nonetheless and lodged there. That deepest part of him always knew that his mother's fate was a foreboding of his own fall.

The fright was nauseating.

"No," Genesis repeated stubbornly, as if words possessed inexplicable powers to free him, but the ropes were already cutting into his wrists; mercilessly cutting down his hopes one by one. The guards quickly and successfully tied him to the pillar, which towered in the corner of the courtyard; therefrom, he could see the small space between the gates and the donjon spread before his eyes. It swarmed with mailed infantry. Those, who did not help in barricading the inner gates, hastily took up the most advantageous positions on the walls and closely to the main premises, preparing to sell their lives dear. Peasants bunched up in front of the knights, mercilessly thrown into the battle like stones to dike the river. And among that mayhem, Marguerite stood quiescently, arms lifted to the sky, and wind rippled her frayed cloak. She triumphed, and in the short, frail moments of victory her forfeited beauty returned. Part of it was of the woman she once had been, the stately, calm beauty of a queen; another part was insane and in her thirst, blissfully oblivious of the heavy tread of doom echoing in the trembling of the gates' leaves, in the clunks of the battering ram, in unified yells.

Sephiroth would force his way into the courtyard any moment, and only that hope kept the redhead's fright at bay, kept the all-consuming, sickening wave from gushing over the brinks of his mind and reducing him to a begging, crawling beast.

That and pride.

Suddenly, the faded, black-and-white world lit up with refulgent light; main towers blazed up, small figures took fire, and from brightness, tears welled up in Genesis' eyes. Numb from fear, he missed the moment when the guards torched the bundle of twigs and wood around the scaffold. In the quivering air, the world took surreal shapes, which painted elongated, distorted shadows on the snowy cover. In the quivering air, each movement seemed twitching, forced. Thin trickles of smoke crept into his mouth and nose, making him cough.

"You promised," Genesis chocked on his lover's name, disbelief conquering fear. "You promised, Sephiroth; you gave me your word."

_And you failed to keep that word…_

Who was he talking to? Perhaps, to that image, a frail fruit of his feverish, fear-stricken mind? Sephiroth froze a few cubits away, face framed by sheens of distant fires, eyes, otherwise bright green, filled with liquid flame. So real; so devilishly real.

"You abandoned me!" He exclaimed.

Somewhere, weapons rattled and screams rang louder, but the healer of his wounds, the morning star, the passion of long nights – Sephiroth finally found him. Then why didn't he move? Why didn't he reach out and deliver Genesis from this torment?

Hot breath scorched the redhead's skin, and Sephiroth's face faded in dark-gray clouds of smoke. It was so thick now that even Marguerite could not be seen, but maybe tears were to blame for his blemished vision. If not for the ropes, which still held him upright, Genesis would bend in violent paroxysms of coughing. His mind could not accept the folly of plans so easily thwarted and the irony of cruel fate; his mind couldn't accept that, which the body knew was inevitable.

_Have you ever asked yourself how monks had felt in that indescribably short moment before they perished? How it felt to look into the very eyes of death?_

Genesis screamed.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

A battering ram was hastily put together from the resources they had at hand. It was a log so heavy that only four infantrymen – two on each side – could lift it. When the Duke gathered them by the inner gates before the final march into the heart of Chateau d'Agrilly, Alber happened to be there. Odo found him in the crowd and silently ordered to pick up the battering ram. Obediently, the young knight took a protuberant branch on one side and ran towards the leaves, stumbling over the scattered weapons and shields. The first blow nearly sent him tumbling backwards. Alber bit his tongue, mouth filling with blood, but there was no pain or taste; like a puppet on someone's strings, he drew forward again, pushing the log into the unyielding gates with all strength he had. And again. And again.

The undertaking seemed pointless. The wooden, bound with iron leaves trembled, yet not even their combined strength could challenge its durability. When the defenders recovered, stones and bolts rained from the walls, gathering a plentiful harvest. It, however, was merely the beginning. At first, Alber heard a stream of invective, then – an inhuman shriek, as if skin was being peeled from someone's face alive. Though, his guess wasn't far from the truth. The defenders poured the basin of boiling tar over the heads of the Duke's infantrymen, which crowded by the gates, showering blows on the leaves. Covered in scorching, viscid liquid, the four of them didn't scream for long, collapsing in shapeless heaps at the foot of the wall. The black waterfall rushed down from above again, and the youth felt a wave of heat before a man in front of him collapsed in agony, his face – a black, eyeless mask. Having abandoned the battering ram, they scattered and flooded back in search for cover.

The buccina signaled thrice – an order to fall back.

Odo was black as a thundercloud. "What should we do? Give their lives to breach the gates or wait until His Majesty returns?"

'_We cannot let Sephiroth down_,' Alber was going to say, but he was forestalled.

"Gates! Open the gates!"

The youth let out a sigh of relief and ran up the stairs of the outer wall. Raising clouds of snow, horsemen were rapidly approaching the castle, and among them it was hard not to notice a tall rider on a jet-black steed.

_Sephiroth…_

His heart skipped a beat and began to thud quicker.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

There was so much blood that Sephiroth could drown in it. Two scythes clashed in the middle of the glade, two bands of living and breathing steel, and not a single one was ready to draw even a span back. It looked captivating and majestic for a moment – flying banners, fluttering caparisons, and raised swords – before jumbling in carnage, knights, squires, and horses together. Banners drooped, swords broke, and horses fell on the treacherous, slippery snow, their fancifully painted caparisons stained with blood.

Sephiroth struck into the king's weakest flank; struck with precision and ruthlessness of a stiletto. Philip's crossbowmen shot once and were swept by the cavalry, carried like pebbles by mighty water and soon abandoned in bloody, shapeless heaps on snow. Steel hit steel, and the echo was heard leagues away from the battle, frightening birds and beasts alike.

At first, the king's rows caved in a tad, and the victory seemed nigh, but they recovered before the formation was breached. Sephiroth's attack was the impetuosity of a waterfall, the precision of iron discipline, the quickness of steel, but once its momentum was lost, the morass of the Philip's infantry swallowed them. Slowed down. Chained the wings. What was the use of wings without the space to spread them? Wherever one of Philip's allies fell, ten appeared out of nowhere, multiplying like heads of a mythical hydra. Sephiroth understood what had happened even before someone desperately yelled, "We are surrounded!"

The center and the right flank of Philip's army hurried to help the struggling infantry, encircling them, pressing from behind. And at that very moment, a gap finally appeared; a small gap, not wider than a croup. With inhuman strength, Sephiroth hurled his opponent into the crowd of the king's infantrymen, and guided his cavalry thereto. Someone's spear slid along his shin, but the viscount wasted no time for a proper thrust, ramming into the thin line of people, which separated him and freedom. Bodies fell under the hooves, bloodied faces flashing a heartbeat before the flamboyant curve of his sword cleft them in half, and his mind fervently urged - faster, faster - even though it was nearly impossible for a human to move at a greater speed. ANd the viscount's effort wasn't futile, for when the jaws clenched, his forces had broken out. A small part was left behind to perish, an insignificant price. Bewildered, Philip could not believe his eyes when the steel band of cavalry curved, flashing silver, and disappeared below the kink. Bolts pecked them in the armored backs and powerlessly fell into the snow.

A road wound before Sephiroth's eyes. Straggling between spruces, it played with him, lured in the false direction, but a feeling akin to the intuition of a wolf led him onward faultlessly. Like a bird, flew his steed, needing no hails or spurs to strain all its strength. As though infected with his master's anxiety, the wise, dutiful animal knew they could not linger. Trees stood as ghosts, their crowns hidden in white haze, guarding their way to Chateau d'Agrilly. It was cold, but the viscount felt not a whit of the biting frost.

The castle appeared abruptly. His detachment darted out of the forest and scattered on the plain. One horse fell, but the viscount ordered to carry on without a halt; without a single glance back. Even on the approaches to the king's fortress, Sephiroth could see the indigo banner flying across the sky. Once the buoyant tune of a bugle filled the air, the outer gates opened wide, like a mouth of a beast, and, having swept through the drawbridge, the detachment rushed into the courtyard. It resembled a disturbed hive, people running to and fro, either carrying out orders, or trying to extinguish the fires, which spread in the settlement surprisingly fast for winter; however, once Sephiroth was spotted, a small crowd hurried to gather by the gates.

The Duke sprang up as if out of the ground, taking the bridle of the viscount's lathered steed. "The courtyard is ours, Your Majesty, but the enemy barricaded the second gates."

Panting, Alber elbowed his way through the pothering crowd and held the stirrup for Sephiroth to dismount. Once on the ground, the viscount took his helmet off and shook his head as the world still raced before his eyes. 'Did you find Genesis,' inquired his silently arched eyebrows, but aloud he uttered different words.

"Philip swallowed the bait, and we can expect his presence soon, which means…" the viscount pressed his lips into a pale, bloodless line, having stopped short in the midst of the sentence. "Close the outer gates, boil the tar, and prepare the inflammable ram."

"What do you mean, Sire?"

"Use cloaks of the fallen knights. Wrap the cloth around the tip of the log, pour tar over it, and torch it." He said in a tone a father would explain his little son how to whet a brand for the first time. "And do the same with the arrows."

Curt orders rang in the sudden quiet. Having unsheathed his sword, Sephiroth walked through the parting throng towards the gates. Having found some sort of a makeshift cover, his knights bunched up by the folds, axes in their hands, yet little could they do against the thickness of wood and firmness of iron. The battle was not to be decided by the clamor or the might of their gluttons, Sephiroth thought, freezing at a safe distance from the besieged gates, where no chance arrow or a bolt could wound him.

He didn't have to wait for long. The abandoned battering ram was picked up again and turned into a more redoubtable weapon than it used to be. The tip of it blazed brightly, sheens dancing on the snow, and as the knights – amongst whom Alber was the most mettlesome – struck the folds again, the wood caught fire. At first, the trickles of smoke were few and barely noticeable, when the flames nibbled at the logs lazily, as if to know their taste, yet then the beams began smoldering and, finally, the fire tightly twined around the gates' core. The defenders continued to wreak devastations among the assailants with their missile weapons, however, the latter's bows and crossbows answered ceaselessly and with no less accuracy. Where an arrow would usually leave a harmless scratch, it scorched, setting cloaks and luxurious plumes ablaze. Screaming, knights and peasants fell from the walls, the latter more often than the former, where the insurgents finished them off.

The string of battle was tightly stretched, the outcome deceivingly seemed to be a draw, but then one man once again ruthlessly tore it.

The inner gates were burning brightly, and into the gaping, hellish abyss Sephiroth intrepidly stepped, sword unsheathed and shield raised – a king, reigning the conflagration he so boldly started. It was a necessary precaution, for in the fog and smoke it was easy to miss a blow even with eyes like those of a hawk. The rest of his retinue recoiled, afraid of the heat, but for the viscount, who dared to shake the foundations of the French throne, it all a child's play seemed, as if he truly were a son of a demon. Or, maybe, the answer a few of his adherents searched for at that moment was much simpler than all artifices of a human mind, appearing a nondescript _courage d'esprit_ coupled with love, which cloaked him like a capote and protected from the scorching heat. And, indeed, having freed his sword from the corpse, Sephiroth burst into the inner courtyard and, ignoring the formation straight ahead, ran towards the burning pile of wood in the distant corner. It attracted his attention the moment he broke into the heart of the fortress, and it was nothing but intuition telling him that he had finally found his lover. The viscount's gaze was hazed with smoke, and therefore he could not discern the outlines of a withering figure or whether there even was one inside the cocoon of raging flames.

Something unbearably hurt there, where all people had a heart.

A few of the most foolish knights chased him. Every moment was a precious gem the viscount wasn't willing to throw away, striking one of the pursuers down with a swift blow and ignoring the others. His followers finally poured through the breach, screaming, 'Sephiroth! Sephiroth!', and engaged in a fight, which was already over. It suddenly didn't matter. His attention was finally where it should have been although Sephiroth knew he could be too late.

"Genesis!" He screamed, drowning even the loudest sounds of battle. "Genesis!"

He screamed his lover's name again, and even the pursuers froze in fright because at that moment he was the demon, the fury incarnate – tall, slender, from head to toe covered in blood. The fight was short and merciless – two abrupt steps, two dispassionate thrusts, two spurts of blood. The last assailant, a baron judging from the coat of arms, tried to escape, but Sephiroth gripped him by the shoulder and hurled into the fire. The baron landed into the heap of brazen coals, howling when fires caressed the bare skin, and rolled into the snow. Desperation gave him unnatural strength. The huge, red-hot pile collapsed, strewing sparks, and as Sephiroth bent over the scaffold, holding his breath, emptiness stared back at him from ashes and smoldering coal. Genesis wasn't there, neither dead, nor alive. A lonely pillar lay by the scaffold, treacherously keeping silent about his lover's fate.

Sephiroth frantically looked round, and there she was, running towards the castle, brown hair flying back from her uncovered head. The acuteness of his sight easily allowed the viscount to discern the difference between a man and a woman even in such mayhem. So they finally met, him and Marguerite, the culprit of his present misadventures, and a spark of hope kindled in his heart. She had to know about Genesis fate!

Without an afterthought, Sephiroth rushed after his stepmother. By the donjon, he saw Odo, bravely smiting on his enemies, and stopped him. "Aside from the nobles, leave none alive," he ordered, and the redheaded Duke replied with a curt nod.

Inside, a battle had already been raging. Sephiroth hurried after the thin figure in a faded, brown cloak, guided by a deceiving flicker of cloth. The viscount passed rooms and halls, corridors and small chapels, deliberately oblivious to the pleas of the wounded and yells of those, inebriated with blood and madness, alike. The stairs were slippery with blood. Corpses lay everywhere, legs and arms spread, hugging each other – be it a former ally or an enemy – like the most devoted of lovers. Twice, he had to engage in a fight, adding his share of death to the carnage. Twice, he cut the thread of someone's life, but if asked a moment later, would not remember the fallen knight or the struggle.

… Sephiroth overtook his stepmother by the wide loophole on the second floor. She had nowhere to abscond but into the emptiness below, halting with her face riveted towards the fading sunlight. Anxiously, Sephiroth glanced over Marguerite's shoulder, expecting to see the king's forces, yet the road was mockingly empty, flaunting its whiteness yet unmarred by the seething battle. Somewhere, he nevertheless made a mistake.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Marguerite's voice was unearthly calm, as though she hadn't just run up the long staircase. "You stood in my future husband's retinue, so serious and pale, and I thought you had been sent by God to be my angel in the marriage I didn't want to enter. You were garbed in silver, and there I thought that there was no color suiting you more than silver. Silver of swords," sang her voice, "silver of your hair, and my love – my love had that cold color. I wanted to flee from you all my life, but as I stand here, now, I realize with unbearable longing and clarity that I had nowhere to run. Rather will I perish first than find my escape!"

"Where is Genesis?" He asked coldly although inside he seethed with hatred. She was to blame for his lover's torment and execution, and she would pay but not before he would wring the confession out of her and with torture if need be.

"He is dead, and I want you to live with that burden if I am powerless to send you after him. He is dead, my dearest son, and angels in heaven rejoiced when his vile soul left this carnal Earth."

"You lie."

"Do you have any idea how I would have loved you?" Marguerite turned. Her pale faced was streaked with tears. "I only wished that. Why couldn't you understand me? Why?"

"Our foolish discourse is over, mother. You will come with me, and I will not stint the means to force you to give up the truthful answer." Sephiroth raise his bloodied sword. She took a step backwards, one unnoticeable step closer to the edge. The cold wind ruffled her cloak.

"I am indeed a foolish woman. How could I ever put you on a pedestal before God?" For a moment, her face became the face of the former Marguerite, serene, youthful – beautiful! – but that moment was fickle, and before Sephiroth could react, an ugly grimace distorted it, making it appear like cracked glass. "But God calls onto his faithful daughter now. Dost thou hear him?"

A harrow shriek escaping her lips, Marguerite lifted her arms to the sky, and alight with blissful madness, jumped into the emptiness.

Slowly, Sephiroth gazed out of the loophole. His stepmother was a shapeless, black dot on the ground. His knights had finished the slaughter, slowly gathering under the donjon, willfully skirting the spot where the mad woman had fallen. Sephiroth saw the Duke, who was enthusiastically speaking to his vassals, brandishing his sword, and each time he screamed something, the throng answered with a satiated roar. They won; not without a price, but it was a triumph. A bitter triumph, whereupon remained but a song a vagabond bard would sing in a desolated tavern to the drunken guffaw of its guests. How cold the comfort was for the dead; the consolation how laughable!

Wearily, Viscount du Bugey leaned again the stone wall. Marguerite had finally perished, the king was temporarily defeated, and Genesis vanished. He didn't know whether to rejoice or grieve; whether to laugh or keep silence, like the only treasure truly worth keeping.

The horizon was clear. Long ago, the dusk spread its wings over the plain below, and as Sephiroth motionlessly watched, the last vermillion colors burnt out and thence, like a bird of prey, fell the stately darkness.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Genesis woke up with a splitting headache. Pain flashed through his fogged mind every time he moved, however slightly; pain firmly settled in his burnt hands, in his bruised chest, pricks of icy needles changing into waves of feverish heat. It pained to breathe, to stir, to swallow. It pained to live.

But at least, it meant he was alive.

The redhead bit back a moan, which longed to escape his lips, and raised himself on his elbow. The surroundings were foreign, bearing only vague traces of similarity, but then the low table, the wobbly chair, and the barren walls of white clay could belong to any room anywhere. Nothing to beguile the eye. A blanket of expensive wool – Flemish, no less – was wrapped around his body, his wounds – patched up and neatly dressed, and even the undershirt he wore was clean, replacing the fetid rags. The ring Sephiroth gave him dimly glistened on his finger, which excluded the possibility of him falling into the hands of some thieves. They would have taken the only valuable thing he had. The one part missing was the sliver, the wooden piece he whimsically carried around since times immemorial.

The last moments Genesis remembered were far from pleasant. Marguerite condemned him to be burnt alive and almost succeeded. Someone saved him when the flames stole up so closely that they left blisters on his arms and legs, poignant reminders that everything for the last couple of days – the torture, the execution, the humiliation – was not a dream. Genesis could recall how the pillar had fallen, how through the curtain of fire and smoke, someone had dragged him into the pile of snow, and then blackness saved him from excruciating torment. The redhead strained his memory, seeking a single flicker of silver in those reminiscences, but although he could flip the pages of his book of life as far as Palestine and his mother's death, the recent events eluded him.

He was indescribably tired and numb inside as though missing a soul.

Genesis inhaled the intoxicating smell of burning pine and lowered himself onto the welcoming softness of a stray mattress. Silence and comfort lulled, gently pushed into the tempting and warm embrace of slumber and with his lover's name on his lips, the redhead fell asleep, enjoying peace for the first time in what seemed like years.

… When he woke up anew, he was no longer alone. A figure by the window cast a long shadow onto the floor, and in the dusty light, outlines of a tall man could be discerned. However, even before the new interlocutor spoke his first words, Genesis knew that it wasn't Sephiroth. That simple realization panged him to the innermost of his heart, but outside he was the equanimity incarnate.

"I feel it was a fateful meeting again, Genesis." Lorenzo faced him with an enigmatic smile on his lips. The redhead reached out under the pillow where a dagger would usually be, but certainly found nothing. "No, no, there is no need for such outright hostility. I am not here to harm you in any way, I swear by our Lord's name."

"I find it hard to believe," the redhead croaked weakly. "You tried to kill me once and hadn't it been for the Viscount's presence, you would have succeeded. Then you helped another enemy of mine, Marguerite, and now you expect me to believe your worthless words."

Lorenzo rubbed his chin. "Blanche was a silly girl; my niece and Leticia's daughter, but a foolish young thing nonetheless. God forgot to gift her with a brain. Unlike my precious sister, she had no knack for the business we have owned for generations, and… to make a long story short, we planned to arrange a good marriage for her, even had a nice party in mind, an old, respectable merchant from a family, which used to be our rivals in the past. But then you came. We are a family of honorable traditions and spotless reputation, and it would damage our business irreparably if we gave away a bad fruit." He nervously clenched and unclenched his fingers. "But the matter, however important it was in the past, is truly a small misunderstanding now…"

"An excellent choice of words, Lorenzo. My life is but a small misunderstanding." With inhuman effort, Genesis stifled a desire to thrust a wooden splinter into the Lombard's throat.

"You have to see it from my point, Genesis. I had an… arrangement made with Marguerite…"

"To kill Sephiroth's stepfather," the redhead interrupted again, but Lorenzo's politeness and patience seemed inexhaustible. "What did she offer?"

"As ashamed as I am to admit now, she offered her body. After the battle at Crecy, I lost control of the events and soon found myself between the devil and the deep sea."

"And you chose the devil."

"I chose what would cost me less; after all, money is nothing when stacked against my life. Soon, however," the Lombard nervously licked his lips, "I found out that the French king had even less appreciation of me than Marguerite. Besides, it was quite obvious that His Majesty would lose to the acumen and will of your… lover, yet I had no merits to persuade the viscount of my good intentions."

'_A snake and a liar_,' Genesis thought with disgust. Dodgy, if need be. "So how does it concern me?"

"You are a guarantee of my family's long and successful relationship with the throne. Do you see now why you are worth more to me alive than dead?"

"Philippe tried to use me as his guarantee and bait. I don't remember much of the siege, but I have little doubt that Sephiroth razed the castle."

"The king was greedy, but what I want is reasonable. I want a truce advantageous for both sides."

"How very generous," the redhead snorted. "What if I – or we – refuse to sheath the sword of war?"

It was hardly a smile or a smirk; well, nothing more than the twitching of lips. Lorenzo came prepared for this conversation. "What you see around us is a monastery. The Abbot is my old friend therefore, as an honorable guest, you will not have to worry about anything. You will be fed and provided with clean clothes; however, no one will let you rejoin with the viscount until he accedes to my small demands. Shouldn't he feel at least a small share of gratitude to me for saving you?" The redhead laughed in the most insulting manner. "What is so amusing, pray tell me?"

"Your last sentence, I found it devilishly funny, I swear." Having ceased laughing, Genesis wiped tears out of the corners of his eyes. It was a mad merriment, when there was nothing to be joyous about, but the pent-up emotion longed to be released from its unbroken cage. "Do you know an old Greek tale of a boy and a wolf? You have cried '_wolf_' so many times that none of thy words will be regarded."

The rest of the conversation was short and meaningless; less cheerful, too. When Lorenzo left, the redhead wrapped his arms around his shoulders in a vain attempt to fight back the haunting visions of his own auto-da-fe. He needed Sephiroth, like the avid for water in the desert yearned for a few droplets of rain. The burning blend of anxiety, anger, and hurt did not vanish; it sat there, by his bed, and smirked.

What a painful reminder of fresh nightmares in the king's torture chambers!

Slowly, he scrambled into a pair of traveling johns and neared a guarded window. A monastic cell in the corner tower resembled a prison, and even his trained eye could not see a way to escape. Not that he expected to find anything of the likes, but at the very least cherished a hope to see the smoking ruins of Chateau d'Agrilly. The burning hatred within him demanded blood to be sated and calmed, yet was denied even such a small satisfaction.

Genesis growled and climbed back into bed. He needed to replenish his strength. If they sought his destruction, this time they would go down with him.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Sephiroth was furious. Reasonable though he was, the events of the last days tried his patience on numerous occasions, leaving but shreds of his stoic veneer. After the siege, he gathered his allies and, among other matters, asked where Genesis was, but his lover vanished without a trace. With guilty or unequivocally smug smiles, they replied in unison that the redheaded monk hadn't been sighted. Interrogation didn't help much either. Guards claimed they had seen a man on the stake, however, in the turmoil, which ensued after the inner gates had been breached, they cared more for their own lives than for the lot of some stranger. Understandable, but the viscount didn't come to the prison to hear their excuses and sympathize with their fates. Odo tried to reason with him, saying all the right things about their _cause_ and how his reputation was a more important issue, but Sephiroth didn't want to listen.

Then the scouts returned, having confirmed his misgivings. After Viscount du Bugey absconded from his carefully prepared trap, Philip made the only possible decision to save the remains of his army. Instead of chasing Sephiroth, the King turned towards Paris or Avignon, giving him a nearly bloodless victory. Could it be that he was underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the bait? Any improvident leader would rejoice nonetheless, but Sephiroth knew how short-lived and frail that triumph was. If he found Genesis, it would be easy to forget about the new problems, but, as ill luck would have it, his lover had disappeared at the most inappropriate moment.

Marguerite was the least of Sephiroth's concerns.

The only good news was the correspondence a messenger from Chateau de Thil brought. The viscount foresaw something like this would inevitably happen and was pleased to see that it happened sooner than later. At least, his _coup d'oeil _didn't fail him where people did. Having dismissed the messenger and the rest of the menials, including Sir Alber, Sephiroth settled in one of the bedrooms of the conquered castle and read the letters. Peacefully crackled the fire in the brazier, and his anger began to abate, yet not for long. The first letter was from Ludwig IV, the former Duke of Bavaria, now the Emperor of the _Imperium Romanum Sacrum__. _It was written in a kingly, polite manner, but the graceful curlicues of his handwriting betrayed the eagerness and impatience to form an alliance _against the common enemy_, as the Emperor stated. Sephiroth didn't console himself about the nature of this alliance. Hungry wolves in a pack were better allies than they would be, but only a fool wouldn't use additional troops and money in his march towards Avignon. In turn, Ludwig had a long lasting conflict with the Pope and would not miss an opportunity to undermine the latter's strength and authority over the church. In the course of his rebellion, Viscount du Bugey planned to join with another ally, whose involvement no one could predict, but if everything went as he planned and Avignon fell, they would return to France which once had exiled and destroyed them.

The Templar Knights.

The Order was allied with the French kings and other European monarchies for a few centuries after the first Crusade, but with time accumulated too much power, independence, and wealth. Part of it was the gold from the coffers of the Holy city of Jerusalem they lost to the Muslims and then conquered back. His father was indebted to the Templar Knights, yet instead of paying with gold or land, yielding his growing influence, the king decided to join forces with the Pope and disband the Order. Jacques de Molay was burnt on the stake, other masters – executed or tortured to death in dungeons, but a share of the knights survived and hid. Rumors were the Templars hadn't yet left France for Switzerland or England in search of a better haven, free of the Pope's seemingly omnipresent influence. The so-called curse of the Capetian dynasty was a proof enough for him. Sephiroth would be the last to suspect the hand of God in the mysterious series of deaths that struck his relatives. With his bold plan in motion, there was a chance the knights would return. And although it was hard to persuade them of his good intentions, Viscount du Bugey had a few thoughts, one of which included giving them the recalcitrant Flanders and thus killing two birds with one stone.

The next few letters were intercepted by his spies and contained brief extracts from correspondence between the Pope and Philip who had been thinking of forming an alliance against him. It assured the viscount that the French king would abscond to Avignon and not to Paris as he feared.

And that was the end to the good news.

The last letter was from Marguerite's confessor, who was left in charge of the viscount's household, and included a piece of parchment with his stepfather's seal on it. Sephiroth didn't remember the last time he had seen it, for it was an old type the Count of Nevers had stopped using after the defeat in Flanders. Slowly and reluctantly, he broke the seal, unfolded the crunching vellum page, as though feeling that it held secrets better left concealed, and in the crimson sheens read. It was a small abstract from what seemed to be the collection of personal memories the old Count of Flanders imprinted in the parchment. A few dozen faded, painstakingly traced out words.

"… _when he was brought out of the room for the first time, everyone saw that his skin was pale. He had_ _unnaturally large eyes and short silver hair, and from what I can remember, no one had ever seen such a mature newborn child. Midwives unanimously claimed he was born like that – a strange mixture of royal and commoner's blood – although I had never personally seen his mother. Later, I was told she had quietly passed away a few hours after she was delivered of him. _

_No one knew what to do with the child. In any case, infants were treated like pets and mothers rarely developed a deep sense of attachment or love towards their progeny, for most of them would not see their second spring. This child came to this world undesired – a burden nobody needed, a stigma the royal family would pay to rid of. There was an unnatural aura about him, and counts and barons began to whisper of ungodliness and wickedness within him. They colluded to smother him with a pillow, but I found there to be more immorality in such an act than in his existence. What sins could a blameless child be accused of? It was already an onerous weight in itself, to be born a royal bastard, having inherited the king's transgressions with inevitable envy and enmity of the rest._

_I took him in and called him my son. I had this inexplicable feeling it was not his fate to die young and nameless. Many of his peers did, but he was among those who would survive without the knowledge of how or why they did it. After the countless battles and tournaments, I recognized the survivor when I saw one. A healthy child, he accepted the wet-nurse I found for him; he smiled like all children smiled when they were happy and cried when he was hurt._

_And till this day, I could not understand why he was called a demonic offspring. _"

Sephiroth slowly put the letter aside. A demonic child then. The alias wasn't new; Viscount du Bugey heard it a lot when he was growing up in the Count's household. Of course, it was never said to his face; menials whispered it in the corners and barons, who showered praise upon him, gossiped behind his back. At the age of eight, Sephiroth was a child with a morbid sense of dignity, and something so worthless used to frustrate and anger him. Then they got used to his presence, and in later years not a trace of previous hostility and suspiciousness remained aside from occasional side glances cast by old widows and churchmen. And perhaps, had Sephiroth read the letter in different circumstances, he would have shrugged it off, yet that day it had the effect of a spark falling into the pile of sear straw.

Sephiroth was furious and fury meant blood.

When the sentry gazed upon his morbidly white face, he recoiled with a pitiful squeal and hastily opened the grates to the prison although the viscount hadn't uttered a word. A few of the nobles who allied themselves with the French king were captured during the siege and temporarily left to rot in the dungeon where they had kept his lover. Sephiroth strode into one of the cells, halted in the middle – silent, frightening, truly demonic – and asked only one question.

Two nobles shrunk in the corner under the withering emerald glare, a father and a son, perhaps. Perhaps, the oldest noble was present in the king's castle when he was born. Perhaps, he even plotted to smother the future viscount with a pillow and thus free the already burdened French throne from an undesired, malapropos nuisance. Perhaps, they had killed his mother in the same, clandestine way. Perhaps…

There were so many '_perhaps_', questions to be answered, but Sephiroth asked only one. The youngest convulsively nodded and with a faint rustle, the viscount's sword left its sheath.

…Paralyzed by fright, the sentry watched as the silver-haired demon raised his weapon, unleashing its power, and beheaded both nobles with two swift swings.

"Carry on, soldier," he collected himself when a bloodied rag the viscount wiped his brand with was pushed into his hands. Sephiroth spared him a fleet glance, but the man remembered those eyes – fire in the desert, lightning in the sky, jaw of a hellish hearth, prompted his racing mind.

But was there a word eloquent enough?


	43. Chapter XLII: A man and a void, part I

_**A/N: **_This story is near its end; about 6-7 chapters are left, so I take it slower than usually. Also, it is scheduled for major revision. Major. *sigh*

Anyhow, loads of thanks to my beta, AlexJ69, by whose great efforts you are seeing this chapter as it is now (trust me, a lot better than it was before XD), and without further ado… well, short list always goes before the chapter. :P

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_Antipope __– _a person who opposes a legitimately elected or sitting Pope by making a significantly accepted claim to be the Pope.

_Louis IX (1214-1270) – _The King of France canonized as a Saint after his virtuous life and many services he performed for the French crown.

_Noblesse militaire_ (fr.) - military nobility; a person or family made noble by holding military offices.

* * *

_**Chapter XLII**__**.**_

_**A man and a void**__**.**_

_**Part I.**_

"…_His head and __his __hairs __were __white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes __were __as a flame of fire… and his voice as the sound of many waters..."__ (Revelation, 1:14-15, KJV)._

Chateau d'Agrilly was burning. Ablaze from foot to the tallest steeple, two corner towers stood still like faithful sentries, guarding a tumbling donjon, but it was obvious to any chance spectator's eye that the dwelling was doomed. Coiling into columns, immense flames roamed in the halls and corridors, hungrily nibbled at the wooden furniture, and the loopholes belched the swollen, satiated tongues, lifting them to the skies like arms in an old pagan ritual. The rest of the structure receded into the dark, which seemed as gluttonous as the fire, if not more. Ice and snow melted on the ground, baring ugly spots on the white shroud already marred by the signs of battle, by frozen, unburied bodies, which soon would become easy prey for packs of ravenous wolves. The sky was shedding fiery tears, now lighting up with lurid reflection of fires, now plunging back into darkness.

In a crimson halo of the conflagration, a thin chain of knights showed black against the fading sunset, slowly meandering like a steel serpent between hills. They did not seem to be in a hurry and every so often would a horse or a wagon stop so that, rising in stirrups, the rider could see the magnificence and glory of the unprecedented fire. Strange and nevertheless natural was the human desire to gaze upon death and ruin, as though people tried to reconcile themselves with the inevitable by guessing what was beyond the frail mete of life. And was there a better way to do so than facing those destructive forces? Unlike them, the knight with long, silver hair did not succumb to the common curiosity and only when the donjon tumbled down into red-hot ruins – roof first, the main premises following, sagging like a giant's body from fatigue – he turned back, threw one last glance at the second sun now brighter than the dimming star of the day. Chateau d'Agrilly was burning, and with it – the past, the present, and the predestined future.

… When the sky grew completely dark and the castle vanished from view, the iron snake of batallies crawled into one of the small villages on its way. Knights dismounted, conversing with excitement, which had not yet worn out after the second major victory they achieved under Sephiroth's command. Human memory was short-lived. Not long ago they fought at Crecy and a few years back – at Sluys, suffering losses from the longbows of English archers, yet scarcely had a talented commander appeared to counter that formidable threat, when they already forgot their vulnerability. Sir Jean de Vienne immediately pulled a sleepy tavern keeper out of his warm bed, ordered the biggest barrel of expensive wine, and an ebullient feast ensued thereafter. The village sparked with life at the time it would usually be embraced in deep slumber. Of course, no celebration was complete without women. None interfered in simplistic means, with which the commoners entertained themselves, as long as those did not pose a threat of defeat to their leaders.

Alber did not abandon his master's side after they left Chateau d'Argilly in ruins although Sephiroth did not talk much. The young knight did not dare ask about Genesis' fate, but it was enough to look at his master's face to realize how troubled he was by the absence of news about the redheaded monk. Once the viscount dismounted, his tall silhouette disappeared in the pothering crowd of nobles, and Alber lost sight of him. The young squire already knew that the French king had managed to escape the prepared trap and now headed towards Avignon, the city of the Pope, where he hoped to find refuge; a vain hope, however, when the opponent did not venerate both the powers of the heavens and their mundane shadows. The youth did not know what to think of his master's decision to oppose the Catholic Church, doubting that his words would make Sephiroth waver even if he expressed his misgivings that their struggles had been a part of God's punishment.

One of the huts was hastily adorned with luxury befitting a victor and future king – there remained no doubt in the hearts of rash and angry nobles about who would claim the crown – and in its corner Alber knelt to steal a moment for a prayer. The hard floor, though covered with thick carpet, painfully cut into his knees, imprinting iron rings of his long hauberk into numbing skin. His lips moved, yet no words passed them, for swallowed by darkness, they became transparent clouds of quivering mist, which gathered on an invisible verge where the cold of winter, of withering and dying, met the heat of his breath.

However seditious the thought was, Alber did not know to whom he should lift his prayer – to heavens or hell, to God or to the Devil himself - feeling only the burning need to pray. Sephiroth marched against God's chosen vicar, and the young knight felt that by following his master, he forfeited the right to unburden his soul before the Lord. Alber clearly saw that he continuously chose to sin, fearing not the redoubtable will of the Almighty, but Sephiroth's displeasure; not the shame of looking into His wrathful eyes upon death, but evoking even the slightest glimmer of ire in the silver-green whirlpools of the viscount's gaze. He was vain. He was unworthy. He was thus punished by having his brother's life taken from him.

And still he prayed, even without hope.

Once, long before he was thrown into the madness of this war, Alber timidly asked Genesis if the latter longed for redemption. His master's lover sinned hence Alber did not expect that with mockery gazing at him from the depths of those devilishly azure eyes, the redhead would softly reply, "I never did. Redemption is as selfish as love, a human folly born out of the everlasting desire to find a simple solution, to throw off chains of guilt and shackles of pain and place our burdens onto someone else's shoulders. God is omnipotent, he can carry it for us, we persuade ourselves. We want to hear someone saying – thou art forgiven – and we want those words to be spoken by a divine entity as if to strengthen our faith in our own atonement."

"But why…" He tried to ask then, but was forestalled.

"The art of redemption is simple and hard; simple to be spoken of, yet hard to learn. You will not find redemption, Alber, lest you find the strength to forgive yourself."

The young knight buried his face in his palms. He was so confused. One day he would wake up with unshakable confidence, determined to follow his master to the grave, but weaknesses, simple human weaknesses, would always worm their way into his heart – doubt, fear, and guilt.

_Can I forgive myself after what had hap__pened – for my brother's death, for my liege's betrayal, for everything… _

The answer did not hurry to comfort him.

Light shuffling of steps interrupted his thoughts. Frightened and failing to realize the cause of that sudden fear, Alber leapt to his feet and hid behind the stove. Six men entered the room; amongst them, were three he knew very well: his master, His Highness, the Duke of Burgundy, and Sir Jean de Vienne. Other bearded and weather-beaten faces seemed unfamiliar.

Once they settled at the table, Sephiroth handed the redheaded Duke a piece of parchment. "Read the letter, Odo, then tell me what you think."

Odo looked at the letter for a few minutes and passed it to Sir Jean. "We can play along, Your Majesty, insofar as we have a common foe. Louis had once dared to initiate the election of the Antipope hence showing us that he can be relied upon."

"It was scathe indeed that he lasted only a few months in power," said Sephiroth. "I was planning to send an ambassador to negotiate the terms of this shaky alliance while forbearing ourselves from showing too much eagerness. 'Tis a weakness in these times."

"What can we offer in exchange for his help?" Having finished reading, inquired Sir Jean upon handing the letter to his neighbor, a noble, whose name was unknown to Alber. "We would not want to yield lands or riches to that avid and cunning master of schemes."

"I suggest we let him elect his own puppet Pope to resolve his conflict."

"Under a condition that not only would the new candidate support The Holy Emperor, but crown a new king of France as well," added Sir Jean in his raspy voice. "When the Pope felt power, he could never reduce himself to accept such humiliating terms, however, with both France and the Holy Empire against his support in Italy, and England being neutral, our chances to succeed increase tenfold."

However, Odo of Burgundy sounded unenthusiastic when he responded. "'Tis a delay in the plans His Majesty opted to achieve with this campaign and that is to separate the church and the state even further. The puppet Pope should be denied the utmost privilege to influence the inheritance of secular power."

Although five pair of eyes riveted on him, Sephiroth remained silent and unmoving, a statue chiseled from marble standing above the rest. For a while it seemed that the whole matter of rebellion suddenly became disinteresting to the very man who had been the cause of it – only Alber knew his master better than the majority of the nobles; Sephiroth was thinking.

"We rash to a conclusion when it is yet unclear what would happen to the legitimate king and Pope."

"We kill them both, Your Majesty." Sir Jean objected in a tone of profound certainty.

"We cannot do it openly. Imagine, Sires, the waves of indignation which would sweep over the Christian world," the Duke shook his head. "If done subtly, however, we can make the murder justified."

"How subtly?"

"We provoke the Pope into committing open aggression against us and then… dispose of him silently by means of poisoning, for example."

"If we arrive at the walls of Avignon with an army, threatening the Pope into complying with our demands," Sephiroth interjected again, "we will commit open aggression against him firstly, so why would he not, by any common sense, answer us in kind? 'Twill nonetheless be seen as a petty excuse to conceal our more than clear intentions."

"Then why does Your Majesty even think of murdering the Pope? Wouldn't it be easier to parade through the streets of Avignon in full force, pressing the Pope into yielding to our reasonable demands?"

"Because I must think of further strengthening the throne."

Alber, by the slightest change in his master's tone, could recognize when Sephiroth was no longer thinking or offering his decision for contemplation, when that devilish mind has set itself on a path, which no one could divert him from. "There was an Order my father had disbanded with ease, which was achieved by the Pope's support. I want the Templar Knights to see me as their ally and whilst the legacy of my father, now dead, still lives on, I cannot accomplish the goal. By striking a fatal blow to the Pope, I will seek their attention and assure that their revenge against the offenders is completed with the triumph over the Catholic Church."

"How do you know they are still around, Your Majesty? No one…"

"I know, Sir Jean."

The lanky knight could not hide his frustration. "So now we are chasing after ghosts, milords." The nobles exchanged quick glances, nodding their heads. "After the stunning start of the campaign, after our swift victories at Calais and Chateau d'Agrilly, our efforts will be futilely spent in finding something that might not even exist. 'Tis my utmost duty, to appeal to your wisdom, messire Sephiroth."

"You have our full support, Your Majesty, only this…"

Sephiroth rose from his seat and the brusque movement hushed the protesting nobles at once although it displayed neither anger, nor threat. The viscount's voice was deadly calm as he announced, "We will set out towards Avignon tomorrow and decide the course of actions depending on how willing the Pope and the King will be to cooperate."

Like that, Sephiroth showed that the question was not a subject of further discussion and after a brief conversation about paying off wages to the loyal knights and acquiring provision, Sephiroth and three other nobles left. Viscount du Bugey planned to make sure that sentries were posted before he would retire for the night, and Alber was about to slip out of the hut to join him, when Sir Jean and the Duke attracted his attention. It appeared that the two of his master's most devoted allies lingered behind. Feeling as if his heart was about to flit out of his chest like a bird from its cage, the young knight shrunk even further into the corner, knowing that he was about to hear something which was not intended for his ears.

And sure enough, Sir Jean asked. "Are you sure we are alone, Your Highness?"

The Duke, judging from the sound of moving chairs, skirted the room, but forgot to look into the small recess behind the stove. Alber was silently praying to all gods and luck smiled upon him when the creaking of wood confirmed that both knights had taken their seats at the table.

"We can speak our minds freely, Jean, yet remember that whereof it is spoken tonight cannot leave this room, for there is too much at stake."

"I understand, milord."

Alber winced at the sound of the raspy voice, yet dared not wipe his perspiring forehead. Even a single movement could give away his hideout and the youth suspected that this secret meeting behind his master's back wasn't held to discuss Sephiroth's wellbeing. His suspicion, however, proved to be both wrong and right.

"I am old, Sir Jean," rang Odo's deep voice, "and wish nothing more than to retire, leaving my family with good wealth and France in good hands. I followed him because I felt he had immense potential as a leader and my intuition, the intuition of an old, battle-hardened warrior, did not fail me. Edward was put to flight after a disastrous defeat at Crecy. I took no part in it, but the rumors I heard were enough to trouble me. But I digress, Jean. After Calais, he proved his God-given vocation to rule, dislodging Philip from Chateau d'Agrilly. I need no more proof to say this – he is the king, whom France had been waiting for many years. Lacking the rigidity of his father, he possesses bravery and intelligence enough not to be the clergy's puppet. But," there was a short pause, "we, as humans, are susceptible to temptations beyond our comprehension, which thus make us flawed. It was instilled into us by God Himself. This is why, at times, we need others to open our eyes to our own faults. He is not an exception, Jean."

"What are you getting at, Your Highness?"

"I don't expect him to be the second Louis the Saint, but there are influences no loyal, God-fearing ally of his will tolerate. You know what I am talking about."

"You think that the redheaded monk…"

"That monk, whether by wicked charms or by sweetness of his speeches, has blinded His Majesty's eyes and deafened his ears to the truth only his most devoted allies would speak aloud."

"Is he aware of our discontent?"

Alber's blood ran cold in his veins.

"I mentioned it to him in passing, but the same willpower and stubbornness, which guides him from one victory to another, impedes him from acknowledging my rightness."

"God forbid, Your Highness! I understand what you wish to do, but it is too dangerous. I do not want to risk his benevolence…"

"We risk nothing. A talented man he might be, but he nonetheless needs allies," The Duke raised his voice, betraying his annoyance, yet obstinately avoiding to pronounce Sephiroth's name as if it could miraculously summon the knight in wrathful fury. "Think of how flawless our campaign at Calais was and how much he had already risked for that monk in haste to besiege Chateau d'Agrilly. Philip absconded because His Majesty had to split his forces in half to free that questionable friend of his."

"I haven't yet agreed to anything, Your Highness," the holder of the rasping voice said cautiously, "and I won't until I understand what you are suggesting."

"Genesis has become a nuisance therefore we need to dispose of him quickly. God smiled upon us when he disappeared after the battle and we must not forfeit the only chance we may get."

The chair creaked, which told Alber that one of the plotters had left his seat. Clasping his hand to his chest as if to keep the desperately fluttering heart inside, the young knight bit his lip and waited. He allowed himself to take a deep breath only when the heavy steps moved away and the Duke spoke again, a tad louder.

"Think about the good of France, my friend! Think about your own good, in the name of God! Dost thou want to be second to a commoner without a whit of noble blood? How preposterous of a thought is this?"

Cornered, Sir Jean timidly replied, "I will think about it, Your Highness, but I cannot give you any other promise. Rather would I keep my head and my modest wealth than hang from a gibbet after chasing the chimeras of influence beyond what the Almighty had blessed me with."

"I hope that your eyes will open and you will not disappoint me."

A door was angrily slammed and Alber remained with Sir Jean alone. The young knight tried to mollify his fears and even take a peep at the room, finding the lanky figure stooping in a miserable pose over the tabletop. Sir Jean was engrossed in thoughts, which promised Genesis no good, and the youth's heart ached for his master and his redheaded lover.

"God Almighty!" The lanky knight exclaimed suddenly, taking his palms away from his face. "What had I done to deserve such a sudden lapse from your grace? Why are you turning away from me now? I protected my city from the English plunderers, fulfilling my utmost duty; I followed Thy call and joined the rebellion, but never dreamed of even a thought as perfidious as the one the Duke instilled into my mind. And yet – damn him! – his words hold too much reason, which a man of my titles cannot ignore." He vehemently swung the chair he had been sitting on and smashed it against the tabletop. "Damn him!"

Continuing to curse the Duke in a flowery style, the former military leader of Calais dashed out of the hut, leaving the door wide open for the usual winter guest: the frost. Alber cautiously struggled out of the alcove and, chattering both from cold and fear, slammed it shut. It took him another poignantly long minute to overpower the nauseating sensation in his stomach. Moving with sloth, as though each leg weighed as much as a knight in full armor, the youth dragged himself towards the stove and knelt, facing not an icon but an insipid wall of his master's temporary refuge. He could not think of how he could help both Genesis and his master and so he resorted to prayer; he prayed to God for a spark of light in darkness, he pleaded the Almighty for an epiphany, which would carry a revelation of the road he sought. He beseeched for wisdom and strength he found to be lacking in these uncertain hours.

Alber prayed for his master's soul and his own.

Alber prayed.

Wordlessly.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

The Abbot did not skimp on food for his honorable guest and prisoner, which in Genesis' case, were one and the same. The table was crammed with cheeses and freshly baked bread, on which the redhead fell as though he was starving for months. As enfeebled as he was, Genesis forced himself to eat as much as he could even though his stomach rebelled, and then stashed the rest of the bread in the straw bedding. If he was planning an escape, he needed to replenish his strength.

An escape… Genesis let no other thought occupy his mind with desperation of the doomed, for loathsome was the mere suspicion that once again he was but a burden his lover had magnanimously decided to carry on his shoulders. He often prided himself upon his independence and more often would he draw inner strength from his pride than find it to be a hindrance.

A glass of water finished the redhead's plentiful meal and as though the Abbot was specifically waiting for him to satiate himself, the door flung open and let a vaguely familiar man through. Genesis narrowed his lids and so did the hoary Abbot in a cassock longer than he needed for his height. It was a fresh reminiscence and hence resurfaced in his memory even before the Abbot exclaimed with astonishment.

"Oi, aren't you Genesis, messire's Sephiroth squire? I did not recognize your face under the layer of dirt and blood when Lorenzo brought you in. What horrors have you witnessed, my son?"

So Genesis was right about something. Sephiroth and he travelled from one village to another in search of the possible grounds for insurgency and a few days before they found the Benedictine monastery, whose Abbot had just spoken to him, a tavern was burnt during a fight the redhead started with one of the king's men. Fire, Genesis then remembered further; fire was burning high and wide, girding him, licking his skin, and he screamed… the night before, he woke up, screaming…

Involuntarily shielding his eyes with his palm, the redhead replied with scant courtesy, "I am messire's loyal squire, generous Abbot. By mistake and by foul scheming of a foe, we were separated in battle and I ended up at your mercy. However, I expect to see your wisdom prevail over whatever influence that Lombard has over you. Messire will reward you liberally for helping me."

Despite the sudden influx of frenetic excitement, Genesis forced himself to repress the dither in his hands and settle on the bedding. He expected the worst scenario, where he would end up in the hands of zealous members of the Church Militant, but desperation clouded the Lombart's sight and the redhead was given to the tutelage of the Church Triumphant and its gullible sheep. Sephiroth needed not worry; Genesis would not be a toy in this game, but rather a pawn with its small but important secret, for only a pawn could become the second queen.

Smiling when a tempest raged inside his soul was an art he learned so well, dazzling his opponents with naïve unconcern while both feet were slowly slipping into abyss and his eyes soundlessly screamed, ordered, "_Help me!_"

"I have to think about your words, my child." No, he did not expect the Abbot to yield so easily, but the wavering in his interlocutor's voice assured him there was hope. "But rest now, you lost too much blood. I will see to it that you wouldn't be disturbed."

"But…"

"I am just an old man and a humble servant of the Lord. I will try to talk to Lorenzo…"

An azure scintilla sparked up under the sooty eyelashes, and Genesis' face contorted with ire. Did this monk think that he needed naught more but to listen to his pitiful excuses?

"What are you frightened of, Father… Celestine, isn't it?" A hasty nod. "You don't want to tell me, right? Then I shall speak. Whatever it is that Lorenzo threatened you with will pale in comparison with what Sephiroth will do if… when he finds out where I am being kept. You missed a lot of events in your monastic cell. The war I had just returned from is being waged in my master's name, who braved the French throne."

Celestine paled, clasping his thin, bony hands.

"Oh, what madness hath come upon this world! What devilish darkness hath taken our souls! 'Tis sheer insanity, young master."

"His decision is not for you to judge, old man."

"Alas, I am but an old and tired man. I did not seek to be involved in the wars of laymen. Too much blood and violence is in them; too much madness."

And, having spoken this, the old Abbot quickly left the room.

Genesis moaned to restrain a scream. The hoary fool turned out to be a coward and although he might find a heart to help the redhead escape, by the time he did so, it could be too late. The uncertainty of Sephiroth's fate and the fate of their scheme maddened him, but the only witness to the redhead's internal strife was a lone crucifix on the wall, whereupon Christ gazed at him with humbleness of the one who had accepted the recompense for sins he allegedly never committed.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

The castle met them with an ungracious sight of closed gates protected by a small detachment, which bristled up with prickly tips of spears and crossbow bolts. This dwelling bore resemblance to Chateau d'Agrilly, yet created only a pale shade of the latter's formidable impression with one wall instead of two, which at that crumbled in several places. Sephiroth stumbled upon it the third day after he left Philip's fortress, but its inhabitants refused to open the gates to the new king. Neither patient, nor feeling benevolent, Viscount du Bugey offered an ultimatum, according to which the landlord would surrender, handing a significant share of his possessions and garrison over to the army, or be annihilated.

Sephiroth boldly halted his steed within shooting range of the crossbowmen. He wasn't feeling fright, rather, his mood was akin to the clouds shrouding the sun, heavy, swollen with icy water, which, owing to the force of circumstances, could be unleashed now or hours later. There still was no news about Genesis. Ever since he lost his temper in the dungeons of Chateau d'Agrilly, he was fighting the same urge: to raze what opposed him, leave it burning, but even such a harsh punishment did not seem fitting for what they did to his lover. They tortured him. There was a chance his lover had died, and, perhaps, against his own wishes, it was time to reconcile himself with the thought that…

"Have you considered our demands?" He asked coldly, not deigning to alight before the noble who greeted him unmounted. That would be a sign of respect the viscount did not feel.

The bearded face radiated determination despite the unnatural paleness, which could not be explained by the harsh cold alone; the doomed kind of a determination of a person, who saw the disadvantage of his decision, yet carried it through despite the danger of self-destruction. There was something solemn in it – the triumph of half-destroyed, Ancient temples and early Christian basilicas, which looked upon this world with placidity and calmness of the past that had performed its utmost duty and receded into oblivion under the obstinate onset of novelty.

"We have, messire," the noble was lucky not to know that the simplest slip of the tongue, like calling him by the lower title, could currently cost him his life. "And we are obliged to refuse. Our family served the French throne faithfully and we do not intend to break our oath. However, understanding that my garrison is too small to withstand the siege, I decided that my menials and family did not have to suffer the consequences of our possible loss." The man proudly straightened and took a glove off his hand. "Therefore I, Gilbert, baron de Mailly, challenge your chosen knight to fair battle, which will end in one of the contestant's death and by which the right to decide our fate will be established." The steel glove fell at his steed's hooves. "May God be with you!"

Sephiroth felt slight disappointment. There would be no battle; despite what his intuition told him, the proud and honorable noble – likely, from _n__oblesse militaire_ – refused the viscount the pleasure to demonstrate his talent and wrath. He ordered Alber to pick the glove up.

"I accept."

"Your Majesty," Odo tried to protest. "You shouldn't…"

"Do not tell me what I should or should not do." Sephiroth's voice rang dangerously low, causing the nearest spectators from both parties to exchange fleeting glances. "Prepare the courtyard for battle."

The preparations were short. The servants cleared a large space of rectangular shape in the middle of the courtyard, bounding it with wooden logs to mark its borders. As it was discussed by the marshals of the joust – Gilbert's squire on the challenger's side and the Duke of Burgundy on the defender's side – the participants could not cross the lines or else they would be pronounced defeated; neither could they surrender nor stop the fight unless one of them was dead or mortally wounded. A few times Alber endeavored to reason the viscount out of risking everything for a cause as insignificant as this, but to no avail. Sephiroth was adamant.

By the rules of etiquette, the participants had to be in equal conditions to fight each other, wearing similar armor and armed with identical weapons. Gilbert suggested a short sword and a shield and since Sephiroth's choice of personal weapon was a flamboyant brand, provided his opponent with both.

A shrill sound of a lone trumpet announced the beginning of the joust.

Sephiroth threw the white ermine cloak off and shook his numbing shoulders. Alber handed him the short sword, and, having gripped its handle, the viscount gave it a full swing, enjoying the swish of blade cleaving the air. The weapon was surprisingly light, sharp, and well balanced. A memory of a tournament he took part in nearly a year ago came to his mind - of azure welkin, vying with the color of Genesis' eyes, smiling upon the land, and of sun rays, shattering against the mailed figures of knights into separate, sharp shards. He missed that color, the fullness of fulfillment it gave him, the sensation of strange, almost unearthly liberation and, suddenly feeling like he was suffocating in the pot helmet, Sephiroth tore it off his head. Leaden silence fell upon him. The wretched audience consisted of a dozen knights from his closest retinue and a pale, despondent wife, sobbing into a handkerchief. His eyes involuntarily slid along the hastily erected seats, as though in the crowd of spectators the knight miraculously expected to find Genesis smiling at him, and when he didn't, he somehow felt deceived.

The Duke of Burgundy, who still stood behind him, whispered. "It is not too late to choose someone to fight in your stead, Your Majesty."

"And cower before a man who can be my father?" Viscount du Bugey retorted with a disparaging smirk, but erased it from his face at once, vesting it in a stone mask. "What an impression I will give to my soldiers!"

The thawed dirt champed under the knight's boots, pools of liquid mud crawling away under his weight in full armor, droplets splashing his mailed shins, as he neared Gilbert de Mailly. Sephiroth's every movement was grace of a serpentine streamlet and the impetuosity of spring wind, and with the first thrust he felt that his confidence sapped his opponent's strength. The baron barely blocked it, catching his blade with the wooden shield, whereupon a visible dent was left. They circled each other, and this time Sephiroth waited for the adversary to strike, luring the latter into a trap by displaying false uncertainty. The baron wielded the sword with skill, but sloth and age put him at a considerable disadvantage, which became obvious to both of them in the first moments of the fight. Desperate, Gilbert used a small gap between fluid strides to attack the viscount with all might, attempting to throw him off balance, missed when the silver-haired knight nimbly avoided the blow, and prepared to strike again, but it wasn't in any mortal's ability to outstrip the lightning. Sephiroth slashed athwart, surely, leaving a long cut across Gilbert's arm, which held the shield, and at the same time blocking the latter's belated thrust. For another few minutes, only heavy thuds were heard across the space of the makeshift tiltyard as both knights exchanged thrusts with equal mettle. With a trained eye, Sephiroth began noticing more and more signs of his adversary's fatigue, both from effort and bleeding. He was finally prepared to deal the fatal blow when luck played him false as an unfaithful wife.

The baron parried his stab with the cracked shield and from the force of impact Sephiroth's blade broke near the handle, leaving a useless stub in his hand. Encouraged, Gilbert gathered his last bit of strength and lunged forward. Slightly confused, Viscount du Bugey tried to dodge the blow he would have otherwise easily parried with the blade, but did not maneuver in time. Gilbert's brand slid along his chest harmlessly, and a few silver strands fell into mud.

Eyes colder than the winter landscape around them focused on the opponent's face concealed underneath the helmet. Was it luck or someone's aforethought ill intent?

Sephiroth's error gave the baron strength. Viscount du Bugey took his shield into his left hand, with which he usually fought, and hid behind its narrow surface, retreating and concentrating on defense. Fright hopelessly lagged in, lost in the bottomless well of his soul. Losing like this after everything he had done – losing so foolishly and pointlessly – seemed utterly impossible even when a stab of pain in his thigh told Sephiroth that the baron's blade finally found its target.

_Traitor_!

Shoved back almost to the border, Sephiroth pushed Gilbert with his shield. Anger doubled his strength. Attempting to retain balance, the baron, who was already too tired, swung wildly, leaving an opening in his defense. Having availed himself on the opportunity, the viscount ducked the flying sword and, thrusting his arm forward, drove the sharp steel stub into Gilbert's unprotected throat. The baron staggered and heavily slumped at his feet, gulping cold air, and when the throes subsided, Sephiroth stepped over the body and cast the useless, dented shield away.

In the small crowd, someone uttered a constrained scream. A widow.

So this was how he planned to win, Sephiroth thought; it was indeed a clever tactic, whereby his opponent would have gained an upper hand had he been a less skilled swordsman.

Alber ran up to him. "Messire, are you all right? Did he wound you?"

Ignoring his squire, he picked up the part of the broken sword from the muddy pool, whereto it had fallen, and addressed the gathering.

"Who was cunning enough to give me a rusty, useless weapon to fight with?" His question was met with deathly silence. "Who amongst you knew about your master's treachery? Answer now or everyone will pay for your cowardice!"

"Spare us, please, messire! We had no hand in my husband's doing!" Tears streaming down her cheeks, Gilbert's wife knelt before him and attempted to kiss his hand, but Viscount du Bugey jerked it away as if the woman's lips could burn his skin.

"Take her away," he said, softly. Their fate was no longer a subject of his immediate interest. Peasants always paid for their master's errors. Such was their lot.

"Please!"

The Duke's guards picked the woman's limp body and dragged her towards the donjon. When that was dealt with, his squire pleaded him again. "May I have a word with you, messire? It is of utmost importance…" But Sephiroth's thoughts, filled with morose melancholy, had already returned to Genesis.

… When they left the castle, having taken the gold and the grain, it resembled a twin brother of Philip's fortress – a fiery ruin against the background of fading dusk and gibbets, hung with dead bodies, which gently swung in the gusts of icy wind.


	44. Chapter XLIII: A man and a void, part II

_**A/N: **_This chapter is dedicated as a belated Birthday gift to one of my oldest readers, who goes by the alias SSGA. _I am glad you enjoyed this story so much and even more glad that it made you ask questions._

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_"... his half-sister Isabella…" – _Sephiroth refers to the sole surviving daughter of Philip IV, Isabella, the queen of England and the mother of one of his rivals in this story, Edward III.

* * *

_**Chapter XLIII.**_

_**A man and a void.**_

_**Part II.**_

The eyes on a bearded face, though painted, seemed alive. Everywhere would their searching look follow Genesis; whether he stood by the window, thoughtlessly observing the discolored scenery sprawled below or lay on the bed, contemplating his current predicament, he could feel the humble request directed at him – _come to me and thou shalt find peace at my feet, restless soul! _If he were so easily bought with the false promises of redemption and light; if he could be satisfied and mollified by kneeling at the image of Christ the Savior, he would not have struggled for as long as he did; nor would he have sought Sephiroth or followed his lover's path, which periled his life.

The Abbot came to visit him a few more times, each and every occasion being short and awkward. Celestine was afraid, either of an imaginary threat to lose his Abbey or due to more palpable reasons not yet known, but soon Genesis understood that he should not harbor hope in the old man's courage. Separately he could accept these circumstances, but both repudiating Sephiroth's love and rejecting vengeance meant that his life had already lost its purpose and he anew returned to the beginning, now bereft of certainty he could ever reach the end.

The eyes on the doll-like face, an incongruous combination of vivid gems and the wax linen of skin, mocked him. They made him remember the days following his mother's execution, the long hours of lying on a bed like this, clutching a sliver in his hand, whereupon a word was engraved. Truth. What could he, a seven-year old frightened boy, know of an entity as multifaceted as truth?

Liars were those who said that a man only perished once. The child died first, dreams of youth followed, and then, before he fathomed the change, the glass threw back the image of an aging face, asking what had become of the gift life had once seemed.

Christ also died twice: once on the hill of Golgotha and then in the luxurious chambers of Roman aristocracy where the meek met the powerful, asking for assistance in suppression of multiplying heresies, which inevitably sprung from the miniscule disagreements in dogma. From human flaws, from human perversities, spawned forth the discord – so had the Holy people excused the violence, citing numerous passages from the Bible to confirm that Christ never called for intolerance. But how could there not be an incongruity in the idea, which contradicted itself in its very core just as homogeneity contradicted variance? How could there be tolerance for different views in a system of beliefs, which aimed for the triumph of one Divine Truth?

Christ was as dead as the wooden crucifix on the wall.

Lorenzo brought him the afternoon meal. Genesis morosely glanced at his jailer, but accepted the food barring a glass of wine, which he refused to drink out of fear to miss an opportunity for escape. The redhead needed a clear and sober mind at all times.

"I thought you might be pleased to know that Sephiroth headed south," Lorenzo tried to start a conversation. "The scout has just returned, bearing the news. What is it that you both want? The question instigates me to wonder if there is more to your plans than first meets the eye else your lover would lead his troops to Paris. Am I right, pray tell me?"

"If you appease my curiosity first, I will," Genesis replied with suddenness, which surprised both of them. "What does Celestine fear?"

The Lombard laughed. "What made you think he was afraid? Perhaps you frightened the Abbot, but rest assured I did nothing to force him. He is an old acquaintance of mine, indebted to me, and a few days back I asked him to return the favor. The rest is not important."

Genesis chewed a piece of cheese and bread before replying, "I see."

"Will you answer my question now that I answered yours?"

"I lied. Although you might not regard me as an enemy, I do."

Lorenzo left empty-handed, and seeing that barely visible expression of vexation on the merchant's face gave Genesis satisfaction.

However, it was short-lived. As long hours dragged on in the silent presence of the crucifix, the sole witness of his ambivalence, melancholy benumbed Genesis' feelings, a soft, smothering embrace. The Abbey continued to live its ebullient life, which he, once seized by overwhelming boredom, could observe. Monks milked cows and carried buckets of hot milk into the oil mill. Lay brothers chopped wood into pieces for the stoves. The yard swarmed with figures in cassocks, looking like an intricate mosaic of gray, white, and black, moving, changing. The inhabitants of the monastery were oblivious of the events outside its walls, banishing the notion of struggle from their minds until the world would brutally remind them of its existence.

And only in short, rare moments, Genesis allowed himself to dwell on Sephiroth, not as a leader of any kind, military or political, but as a lover and friend. He was weak in the dungeons because he could not fight alone and thoughts of Sephiroth inspirited him, but now the very same memories left him enfeebled. The redhead would cowardly desire to return to the desolated hut in the forest, to become once again oblivious of the world, delaying the awakening by months, years even, until they would grow old and want nothing but peace.

Yet, alas, different people became monks and conquerors, and if he wanted a life in prison, he would not choose to love a man with wings; an angel, though fallen. The rebellion was their masterpiece after all, their creation, conceived together, and none could say that his role was unimportant although history would not remember the redheaded daring lover of a self-proclaimed king.

Finally, feeling trapped again, he called for a young brother and asked the latter for a book from the library, anything to take his thoughts off Sephiroth and their campaign. The young monk was of small stature and had a naïve, freckled face, half-concealed by the thick fringe of brown hair. His shyness enlivened Genesis, preoccupying his thoughts so much that he could not concentrate on reading the tome on the history of Salah ad-Din and his conquest of Jerusalem. Upon setting his eyes on that fair face, Genesis understood that the passions of young age were not alien to the monk, yet he knew not how to battle or explore them, displaying a volley of emotions under the redhead's stare. At that age, Genesis' solution was simple. He escaped the walls of his monastery to receive his share of mundane pleasures from peasant girls who lived in villages in the vicinity of his _prison_, always remembering not to return to the same settlement more than twice a year, in summer and spring, when blood boiled stronger. However, timidity prevented this youth from disobeying the rules and so he kept those dangerous desires at bay.

"What is your name?" The redhead asked whereupon the young monk stepped over the threshold. Genesis called for him again under a seemingly innocent pretext of feeling overwhelming thirst, but in his devilish mind he already saw a ray of hope to abscond from prison.

"Brother Remy, sire." He replied with downcast eyes, just like a virgin.

"How long have you been in the monastery, Remy?" Genesis continued the inquiry in the kindest of his voices.

"In autumn, it will be seven years," The young monk raised a hand to his hair and dropped it, as if not knowing what to do with that extra part of his body. "Messire is kind to ask."

Genesis invited his interlocutor to take a seat. "Do you like it here?"

"Father Celestine is a very good man. He cares about every soul in his parish, and-"

"I hold no doubt in father Celestine's virtues, but I asked not of his merits, but of your personal feelings."

The monk's face wreathed in a smile, "Messire believes my feelings are important, but how can a man as insignificant as I complain about wisdom of our benign father?"

Once the initial shyness passed, the youth turned out to be a cheerful and eager interlocutor, telling Genesis about life at the monastery, his duties at the library, and even father Celestine's preferences in wine,_pardonable weaknesses_ as the Abbot affectionately called his more worldly habits. He tirelessly babbled about Matins and how he frequently got in trouble for not waking up on time, about books in his care and mysteries coming to life on the multi-colored engravings.

"… Mother could not feed all four of us after father's death so she gave me away to the monastery. She said I would be fed well and provided with a roof over my head, and it was more than she could give me. I do not complain, sire. Abbot Celestine is like a real father to me, and the exceptional kindness of the brethren serves as the pillar of strength to my faith in God."

And only after an hour of the conversation, the monk confided in Genesis, blurting out his most shameful secret, which appeared to be his inappropriate thoughts about women. He saw them when they came from the nearby villages to trade with the monastery, and these creatures fascinated his impressionable mind. It was wrong to dream about a woman, to touch a woman, or God forbid, to lust after a woman, but the youth possessed no strength of will to erase the salacious and pernicious images from his head.

When the young monk believed he could trust Genesis, he inquired, "How do you battle those desires?"

How did he battle them? Genesis shuddered, remembering Sephiroth's touch, the confident caress of long fingers, the half-smile on his lover's lips before, leaning forward, Genesis would steal a kiss from them. He did not fight those desires. He plunged into the whirlpool of pleasure headlong and never regretted a single moment.

Then the redhead, as if by chance, drew closer to the youth and in paternal voice assured him that everyone, even the most righteous and staunch members of the Church, had been brought to their knees by lust; that it was for his further benefit to find peace with himself regarding whether or not he could sacrifice the pleasure for the life-long service to God, and to do so, the youth had to try it once. Genesis finished his long monologue, which his interlocutor avidly listened to, by wrapping his arm around the monk's shoulders and in such an intimate way offering him a choice, insisting on nothing but rather following what he called a sudden impulse to help. Young hermits rarely had the will to resist the redhead unless the flame of fanatical zeal had already consumed them.

When the youth finally left, Genesis knew he would escape soon. Sephiroth will be proud of him.

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

While Sephiroth's army marched towards Avignon and Genesis struggled to free himself from confinement, a horse-drawn cart could be seen travelling the roads of France. It emerged from underneath the veil of winter mists in the morning and drowned in the darkness of early night. A midget drove a pair of gaunt horses, adroitly avoiding the pits and bumps on the road to make the last journey pleasant for his mistress. Loki, the ugly, hunched dwarf who addressed himself by his name, was the only living soul to remain loyal to his mistress. He was bringing her home.

Marguerite lay atop the bedding of hay, more a shell than a woman, without a mind, without a voice, unmoving, and only her jaws mechanically opened and closed when she asked for a drink. She stopped raving on the second day after they left Chateau d'Agrilly. Loki knew she was going to die, but death wasn't merciful to the daughter of kings. When she fell out of the window – and Loki saw it – her spine broke, and the dwarf could not leave her lying there, at the foot of the tower. He stole her body, from which the soul had nearly departed, and found an abandoned cart on the road – not a rarity in those places, which an army had just passed. He remembered the road to Chateau de Thil because once he drove a wagon there.

His mistress was the only being who showed kindness to Loki in many years. From his previous master, he learned the arts of healing, and this allowed him to understand that Marguerite was doomed. Yet, it did not stop Loki. He had to repay his mistress.

Born the daughter of kings, Marguerite was dying like a dog, and to that Loki, who was nothing more than a dog himself, could relate. He could feel her suffering with his limited capacity to feel. He pitied her and at the same time she remained his mistress, a higher being, and that bond no one but death could sever.

Slowly, horses dragged the lugubrious wagon across the vast expanse of France. Events passed them without changing the routine; people shunned them and so did beasts. They got lost, the invisible sand grains in the hourglass, droplets of rain in the river, insignificant, needless, forgotten.

"I am with you, mistress," Loki whispered, leaning over Marguerite's body to tuck the well-worn blanket so that she would not freeze. She started at him, and only her mouth twitched uncontrollably.

A human gazed into the eyes of a human; a void – into another void.

And smiled.

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

After another night spent in the company of the young monk, Genesis woke up in a lighter mood for the first time since he was captured by the king's servants. Having hastily dressed himself and eaten a frugal breakfast, the redhead prepared to call for his victim when a commotion was heard from the courtyard. After he spent many months with Sephiroth, he could not confuse the sounds, which accompanied the presence of the mailed cavalry, with anything else – the clanking of armor, the neighing of horses, the rude curses of knights. The morning mists crept upwards chill and damp. Sunrays had flared up on the horizon, but soon the skies gloomed and friable masses of clouds swallowed the last gleams of light. In the empty garden behind the monastery, lone apple trees stretched their arms towards human dwellings, begging for a whit of warmth.

Genesis peered into the courtyard, having counted five horsemen dressed in colors of the Duke of Burgundy. His natural cautiousness dulled the joy of seeing Sephiroth's allies and he quickly hid behind the curtains. What seemed freedom at first soon smacked of a trap. If Sephiroth sent someone after him, why would he choose Odo's servants and not Alber or leastwise a few knights from his own retinue? It was logical to suspect that if the Duke found out about their affair, he would want one of the participants dead. Without Sephiroth, the insurgents were doomed whereas Genesis did not belong to the powers that be. The choice was obvious.

His world was shattering little by little.

Having bitten his lower lip, Genesis tried to open the wooden door, but its leaves were crafted of thick wood and the lock resisted his desperate attempts to force it. Then the redhead dashed back to the window. The knight leading the small group was conversing with the Abbot, but their voices could not reach the tower where he was kept. If only he could understand whereof it was spoken…

The door to his room flung open and dressed for a long journey, Lorenzo appeared on the threshold, holding a thick candle. The merchant's face was pale but calm. Behind him, loomed the shadow of a burly monk.

"We need to run, now!" The Lombard looked genuinely frightened. When Genesis showed no visible desire to comply, he impatiently raised his voice, "Why are you standing like a prop for furniture? Didn't you see who came for your soul?"

"Must be the Devil himself, for who else could have frightened you?" The redhead, however, was obliged to drop a mask of careless irony when Lorenzo didn't even acknowledge his remark. "My lover's allies had finally found me; ergo, I have more than sufficient amount of reasons to wait."

"These aren't you lover's servants. If Sephiroth sent them, why would they claim to have come on behalf of the Duke of Burgundy?"

"I have heard no such thing. The walls of my prison, you see, are thick. And I have no reasons to trust any word that comes out of your mouth."

Rage distorted Lorenzo's features, "They came to take your life and you continue astonishing me with unusual slow-wittedness. I swear – I will hold a crucifix if you wish – we are enemies no longer!"

Genesis suspiciously glanced at the sturdy monk. For all he knew, both of them would overpower him effortlessly if he attempted to resist. After a moment of sullen reflection, the redhead decided to follow Lorenzo who out of two evils, currently seemed the lesser.

"What do you plan to do?"

"There is a tunnel underneath this monastery, which will lead us to freedom, but we need to hurry." The Lombard looked over his shoulder as though expecting to see Odo's knights with their swords drawn and ready to strike. "Celestine agreed to hold them back for as long as it would be possible, however I have no doubt they will meticulously search the monastery. These boneheads don't give up easily."

The redhead nodded, slipping a warm cloak over his shoulders.

Lorenzo led the way. The upper floors were light, but as they descended the stairs, darkness filled the winding hallways; the lower they went, the colder became the air, quenching the flickering candle flame. Tapestries and wooden adornments disappeared, giving place to the crudely molded stone. Steps echoed under the arch of ceiling, betraying their presence to anyone with a keen ear, but luckily they met only scrawny rats. Genesis' hands were prudently bound and the unfamiliar monk brought up the rear, yet the redhead temporarily abandoned the thoughts of escape. The Duke's intervention ruined Lorenzo's game, and Genesis did not want to rush the events, which could urge the Lombard to make a desperate and ill-considered decision, such as killing him.

The tunnel narrowed about half an hour later. The escapees struggled out of the hole, which hid in wayside bushes. There were blackthorns and suchlike as high as his head, and the redhead cut his wrist on a dead twig. While he was wrapping the scratch in a piece of cloth, the monk straightened the crushed branches to conceal the place where they got out.

"And what are we to do now?" Genesis addressed the Lombard. "Please, tell me you came up with _some_ plan."

"We have six hours before the sunset, more than enough to find a tavern to spend the night at," snarled the merchant, looking miserable, and in different circumstances the redhead would be utterly amused. Now his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of triumph, which came unexpectedly, followed by the feeling freedom, deafening, blinding, benumbing. He drew in a lungful of fresh air, throwing his head back and tightly closing his eyes; wishing the feeling could last for eternity.

"They will find us soon if we don't start moving," interrupting his contemplation, the merchant roughly shoved him towards a semblance of a path in the coppice.

The road was familiar. It took a sharp turn and, looking back, Genesis saw the small fortress of the monastery and barren vineyards. Once, he spent a night with Sephiroth in the hospitable company of the Benedictine brothers and their Abbot. Now those times seemed dreamlike, separated from reality, where he walked almost barefoot on snow, where wounds, both internal and external, still hurt, by a palpable veil.

After the cluster of trees thinned out, the snowbound plain billowed with white, motionless waves of hills and hummocks. Freezing, the escapees crossed a few gullies and when the darkening welkin blended with the horizon and they had tired their feet, the stout monk was the first to notice a small village hiding in the vale. Nothing more than a gathering of lopsided huts it was, but the mere thought of a roof above his head caused Genesis's heart to leap with joy.

"This is where the Duke's servants would look for us," he nonetheless remarked in passing.

"We have no choice," objected Lorenzo, "if we want to survive the night."

The Lombard was right. Without means to start a fire, they were doomed to freeze on a long winter night. Yet, vigilant as ever, Genesis advised to send the Benedictine brother first, and soon the monk brought consolatory news. The tavern, standing aloof and abandoned to nearly utter desolation, was fit to shelter them, and the Duke's knights had not yet found it.

It wasn't warm inside, but the cold wind did not chill to the marrow and a sullen yokel brought them a meal – a few bread crusts, hard as a rock, a slice of old cheese and three cups of milk, which smelled of goat's hair. Lorenzo paid for it with gold and the tavern owner agreed to give them the best room and three worn-out, woolen blankets. To the merchant's question about the state of things, he, mumbling with a toothless mouth, replied, "There was a plague, Sires, two years ago, and then the monastery imposed its levy and sucked us dry; all life, gone, only we, the faithful children of the Almighty, remain without future, without hope. And I once served the Count of Nevers himself and before that – his father… Might I ask what brought you here, to this God-forsaken place?"

"We are travelers," Lied the Lombard, offering another coin, which was scooped by the greedy hands of the hoary yokel into the pocket of his coat.

"You have shown a bit of generosity, Lorenzo, which somehow doesn't suit you," said Genesis, taking a seat by a wobbly table and wrinkling his nose. The abomination of desolation not only looked peculiar, but had its distinct smell – of mold, decay, and urine.

"'Tis a bad time to scant," the merchant took a sip of the goat milk with an expression of a tortured prisoner. "This swill even a swine would not drink!"

"And how different are we from pigs?" Echoed Genesis with melancholy, soaking the hard bread in a cup, "I am a bony swine, unfit even for slaughter, you are a young, restless piglet, who thrusts his nose into matters which are above his understanding, and he," the redhead pointed to the silent Benedictine, "oh, he is a fat hog, all right."

"You chose a wrong hour to philosophize," Lorenzo set to nibble his dried crust.

"Quite the contrary, for when will I get another chance to sit and talk to you in a suchlike relaxed manner?"

Mockery cut the air like a whetted sword. Lorenzo didn't hear it or pretended well that he did not.

"Later, when we get to Sephiroth's encampment, I will philosophize with you with great pleasure."

"I am afraid that when we get to Sephiroth's encampment, we won't have the time."

"I can offer help of the whole league of Lombard merchants!" Lorenzo exclaimed with desperation. "In these unstable times, he would never refuse their support."

"Then why don't you ask the Lombard league to save your precious skin?" Genesis acrimoniously smirked. "Or are you still driven by a staunch desire to have a French king indebted to you in more than one way? Sephiroth likes dependency no more than he likes his stepmother and believe me he hates that woman."

The redhead did not know that Marguerite jumped from a window during the siege of Chateau d'Agrilly.

"They won't intervene for a cause as insignificant as mine."

Having amused himself a little at the hated merchant's expense, Genesis hastened to assure Lorenzo that Sephiroth would consider his help. It seemed to have alleviated his anxiety and lulled his vigilance. Hope, it was said, died last, and the redhead had already decided that he did not need the merchant any longer.

It was human hubris, which let those like Lorenzo think that they could catch and outsmart the Devil.

After the meal, the Benedictine was told to guard the room where Lorenzo insisted he would stay with Genesis. At first, the merchant bravely fought off slumber, cursing the lice-ridden bed, the frost, and even himself for being born with ill luck, but as hours hung heavy in darkness, he quieted down and sat, trying not to blink, until blackness of oblivion overpowered him.

Genesis, even if wanted to, could not sleep. He was trying to recall what he knew about the Lombard: he was the uncle of naïve Blanche, the poisoner of rich noblewomen's lovers, an ambitious young man who dreamt to be a noble and in his dreams, perhaps, saw himself an advisor for the future king, but those dreams could not show his death. Death was in the room already, casting its long shadow onto the floor.

For themselves, people were the Universe and with their death, it seemed, all would come to an end; but no, centuries from now, myriad of other people would walk the surface of the Earth, breathe, love, kill, and die just like them until one day life itself would cease to exist. And beyond it, were myriads of other stars, myriads of other worlds and – who knew – maybe, even myriads of other Universes, empty or populated with hostile life, created as someone's mad designs or theatres for gods, by their own hands destroyed and purposelessly left floating in darkness like remains of a shipwreck.

But amidst this unfathomable web of the laws of existence and non-existence, a man whose mind could not grasp a lifespan of a Planet or distance between stars, the man with imagination of a dust particle on the window, that blind man considered himself everything. The lord of creation.

The delusion had a sweet, almost nauseating allure.

So thought Genesis, sitting on his bed and carefully, soundlessly fraying through the rope, which tied his hands. It was a thick rope, and what seemed like hours passed before the redhead's hands were free. Then, before the Benedictine, guarding the room, could suspect anything, he slipped off the bed and bent over the merchant. A wooden splinter, sharpened at the end, was clutched in his fist. He broke it off the bed.

Memories flitted across his mind, faces blending with voices, which sounded louder and louder; too many at once. Blanche had Marguerite's face and begged him in Odo's voice. Sephiroth was dying in a sordid hut, but instead of Alber, his lover's stepmother carried them water from the nearby stream with a serene smile. Life and death clashed in his head, neither winning until by an inhuman effort of volition, Genesis thrust the splinter into the Lombard's throat.

The merchant's eyes opened wide, two voids, two universes, each a size of an ant. He began wheezing, making futile efforts to say a word, confused, frightened, tormented with pain, which suddenly interrupted his pleasant dreams.

Genesis did not linger to watch Lorenzo die. The voices in his head faded into incoherent mumbling, annoying, true, but harmless. Before the sounds of the merchant's agony alerted the Benedictine, he climbed out of the window and ran towards the stables where a couple of horses lazily nibbled at bundles of frozen grass. Genesis saddled one.

He looked back before leaving the village. A small group of horsemen was nearing the settlement from another end. It was by sheer luck that he had escaped before Odo's servants overtook them. Genesis was now free.

The winter sky looked at him from above, silent and forever ageless.

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

A field stretched from underneath the hooves of Sephiroth's steed. White foam of snowy waves touched the invisible border the viscount outlined with his eyes, beyond which lay the road leading to the destination he feared to reach despite acknowledging the inevitability of it. It was the last step in his long journey, a place called Avignon, where the heart of the Catholic Church throbbed evenly for the last few decades.

Sephiroth was ready to doubt his plan, the very foundation of it, which was his firm belief that the Frenchmen would accept the new king. Recently he began fearing that the reasons for him to be rejected were overwhelming; few would bend before a demonic child, a lover of a renegade monk, and the last direct descendant of an accursed king. They would not accept him, the thought thrashed in his mind as a bird against the rods of a cage, begging him to let it go. The superstitious, blind, God-fearing traditionalists would rather wait for an impossible miracle from heavens than rebel against the weak and unwise king. But God or nature, however one might call it, did not worry about the successors to the French throne. Only Genesis would know how much he desired to clear his head. Sephiroth jerked the bridle, turning his steed around, and guided it towards the city where he grew up.

The citizens of Nevers eagerly opened the gates before their regent and current lord. The army settled in the marquees around the walls of the city, whose streets Sephiroth walked so often that even if blinded, would not be able to lose his bearings. The viscount was aware of the movements the enemy made and more troops gathered under his banner every day, drawn to his side by the rumors of overwhelming success and lavish promises of temporary relief from requisitions, which he knew he would not keep. The war needed to be paid for, and the only available source was heavy taxation. The negotiations with the Holy Emperor did not suggest there was insincerity in his offer. The Duke seemed aglow, as though he had acquired new constancy and faith, entertaining their allies with his witty and inexhaustible, despite the age, humor. Even the Estates-General kept their silence although it was more temporizing than favorable.

Sephiroth was as strong as ever and equally doubtful.

He had not received a single piece of news about Genesis, where to look for him or whether he was even alive. The search yielded no results, having sowed seeds of slight distrust between him and his allies; distrust Viscount du Bugey did not openly show, suspecting that they did not tell him the whole truth. His lover disappeared as if their bold affair was but a dream of a delusional mind, and only familiar streets of Nevers, buildings and squares they walked by together reminded Sephiroth that he had indeed once found a person who thought as he did, who was equally mad and equally ready to wage a relentless struggle against those, who impeded their ascension to the heights no one would dare challenging for centuries.

His suspicion turned into certainty when Alber confessed he had overheard a conversation between the Duke and Sir Jean de Vienne. They left him no choice but to abandon his efforts to reunite with Genesis, hoping that his lover would find him on the day he would no longer depend on his allies.

The flames of war flared brighter from fool's hopes.

A servant took his ermine cloak and opened a door into the study provided for him in the town hall. After a short ride he undertook in the presence of the obligatory retinue, the future king secluded himself in the chambers and ordered his squire to join him. Having sunk in the deep chair, he watched fires flicker in the stove even as Alber shoved through the chink in the wooden leaves.

He hadn't slept for three nights. Too much was at stake – his fate, his lover's, and the lot of the kingdom of France.

"Repeat what you told me last night."

"Messire should not torment himself with what those malignant and envious people said," Objected the youth. "Messire should try to rescue Genesis. Having a will, it is possible to find a way. Wasn't it what you always taught me?"

Sephiroth smiled. The expression turned out mirthless. Passion of the young age made his squire sound bold and rebellious. How little Alber understood about politics and what the Frenchmen expected of their new king. To become the one who would dictate the right and wrong, he had to learn to obey first.

"I ordered you to retell Odo's words. I did not ask for your advice."

"Both Odo of Burgundy and Sir Jean concluded that your relationship with Genesis threatens the success of your rebellion and future reign therefore they conspired to murder him. Your Majesty, please! I have served thee for years with good faith and fidelity. I will do anything you ask to save him!"

"My hands are tied, Alber, and the amount of my choices is, I am afraid, scanty." The viscount replied softly, but it was the softness of melted steel. For the first time within his memory, his squire openly disobeyed. Perhaps the youth began feeling more resolve when he was knighted.

The floor boards faintly creaked. This is how Sephiroth knew that Alber approached.

"He came to me when we were ready to leave Saint-Omer. He asked – no, begged – me to protect you on the battlefield, messire, even if it meant to forget about the victory," His squire's voice grew stronger; "He saved your life once! You cannot abandon the search now…"

In different circumstances – if, for example, Alber talked about the arrangement of stables in the courtyard or even a minor detail in his tactics – Sephiroth would have welcomed audacity, but when his squire mentioned Genesis, he crossed the invisible line. How dare the youth even hint that he had not done enough for his lover?

"Do you think it is easy for me?" Sephiroth rose in one fluid movement, and threw a guiltless clay mug against the wall. It shattered into smithereens, the sound causing his squire to petrify and drop his head. A dangerous flame flickered in the viscount's eyes even as, seemingly tired, he sunk back into the chair. Froze.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, I forgot myself," Alber said in a cracked, weak voice. When Sephiroth did not answer, he took a small step backwards, then another and another. "Forgive me…"

"Out of my sight!"

The youth's face flushed from unbearable shame, the blush vying with deathly pallor, which covered his features but a moment ago. His master's tone affrighted him thus much that icy prickles crawled along his spine underneath the warm gambeson.

If any members of the old royal court were present in Sephiroth's chambers, they would faultlessly recognize the true son of Philip the Handsome, widely known by his other alias, the Iron King. And as if aware of that undeniable semblance, Sephiroth thought of his father, who was first and foremost a king and only then a man with weaknesses and flaws. His father won strives against the Pope and although the victory wasn't complete, he showed Europe that battles of such magnitude could be fought. It was said that Boniface VIII passed away a raving lunatic, crawling on all fours like a newborn child, when torture and humiliation bereft him of reason. Sephiroth rarely pondered over his father's legacy, but all of a sudden he was asking himself whether he would make Philip IV proud. All of a sudden he imagined himself sitting on a throne, adorned in lively hues of gold and blue, feeling weight of the French crown upon his brow, unbearable burden of the past glory and future calamities. And dolled nobles would look at him as they looked at Philip IV – with expectations, with hopes of gain, with jealousy and fear. Would they also murmur the same words which had been said about his father?

_He was neither a man, nor a beast. He was a statue._

The thin lips whispered, "A statue," and Sephiroth quietly laughed.

"Summon the Duke at once."

…By the time Odo of Burgundy got to Sephiroth's chambers, the flames in the stove had nearly died out. The small tongues flickered amongst the ashes, tired and tamed so that when Viscount du Bugey stretched his hand, the fire pleasantly kissed his skin instead of scorching it. The impending conversation with the Duke foreboded no good, but delaying it made no sense. And yet, Sephiroth could not dismiss the sudden thoughts about his father whom he never knew, but whose vague shadow from now on incessantly loomed behind his back like a pair of black wings. The burnt Templar Master, the curse of France, the exorbitant taxation, the devastation caused by two of his half-brothers, the intrigues of his half-sister Isabella – the ties to his family the viscount denied for so long finally caught up with him. The only remaining enigma was his mother, from whom he received his pale skin and long silver hair.

Momentarily, he considered writing Isabella a letter – not out of brotherly love but obeying simple human curiosity to know more about his father – but when he remembered that she was Edward's III mother, decided against communicating to his rivals. His half-sister was known for her arrogance.

"What is Your Majesty thinking about?"

"Tell me, Odo, do I resemble my father?"

The Duke placed a candlestick onto the table, and the amount of quivering shadows on the wall doubled.

"Your father was a great king, and your glorious achievements would have made him proud. He often wanted a son with your resolve and acumen, but the Almighty never gifted him with one. What a pity he did not live to see his worthy son grow up. Was there anything else Your Majesty wanted to know?"

"Ah, yes. Tell me, what if my father found out that one of his closest advisors betrayed him, say, stole from the treasury or negotiated with the enemy?"

And unwavering again was the Duke's voice, "He would execute the whoreson."

Sephiroth lifted his eyes, lit up with the gleam of candle flame, "What would you advise me to do with a traitor? Grievous rumors about conspirators reached my ears, and I hadn't even won yet."

"What conspirators, milord?"

Clutching the armrest of his chair for support, the viscount breathed out his indignation, "By plotting against a dear… friend of mine, did you not conspire against me?"

The Duke's face flushed with anger, and his answer reverberated in the small room, "Who told Your Majesty such preposterous lies?"

"I would not speak his name because he asked me not to."

"Then Your Majesty hearkens to the spiteful gossip, which benefits the enemy who cannot wait to see our unity and strength undermined by petty discord."

Sephiroth squinted. He could not tell whether Odo was lying, but he knew Alber would not. His squire was not bold or cunning enough to weave a web of intrigues behind his sovereign's back.

"I trust him."

"Who enjoys Your Majesty's confidence more than I? Who serves Your Majesty more faithfully than I?" The old Duke pressed his gloved hand to the coat of mail where his heart was beating under layers of steel. He almost had Sephiroth fooled. Almost.

"If the words you speak are truth, then swear on your honor you will not deliver any harm to Genesis."

But before he finished speaking, Sephiroth had already known that the Duke would promise anything and recant that promise the same day. Unclenching his fingers, the viscount unnoticeably wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead and listened to the Duke's solemn avowal. It was over.

_Forgive me, Genesis…_

Guarded windows had grown misted, and cozily crackled the wood in the stove, feeding the flames, which reflected in emerald eyes of the silver-haired viscount, blazing so brightly that it seemed they could escape the narrow cage of the eye sockets and flood the room.

"Have you ever desired to be young again, Your Majesty?" The Duke changed the dangerous topic.

"No," he replied absent-mindedly.

"Do we not flutter in the glance of youth? Don't we all desire to return to those blissfully careless years of the short childhood when nobody depended on our firm resolve and freedom enthralled us with its simplicity?"

Sephiroth smirked with one corner of his lips, "Freedom was never simple for me, never without a question what I was free from and for what reason I wanted to be free."

_Forgive me, Genesis… I cannot be free only to love you…_

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

Genesis knew that Sephiroth stayed in the village. After a few days of futile search, having passed the burnt ruins of Chateau d'Agrilly, he finally found where his lover's army halted for rest. It was enough to ask two or three frightened peasants.

"Of course, messire, how could I forget?" An artless bloke in his late twenties replied, scratching his head. "He was tall, lean, with long silver hair, a memorable type."

"Know that you are talking about the future king, serf."

"I care not for the kings, messire. To me, kings are who we pay taxes to; who swindled my family out of all money and starved my daughter to death. And a new king means another coronation ceremony, which will be paid from our pockets…"

Genesis impatiently interrupted him, "When did he leave?"

"Two days ago, messire. He headed to Nevers."

Genesis expressed his gratitude with a curt nod and urged his horse towards the road, one of the many he passed during his furious galloping. It was frustrating to arrive late, but knowing how slow Sephiroth's army was, it should not take him more than two days to catch up with his lover.

Cold wind helped Genesis to throw off the last remains of sleepiness. He had to hurry. He escaped death's grip, he was finally free, and did not wish for a heavy blizzard to impede their reunion.

Sephiroth will be proud of him.


	45. Chapter XLIV: A man and a king, part I

_**A/N: **_This chapter was partly inspired by a recent article I found about Dissidia and Sephiroth's role in it, which only confirmed my conclusions about his character. So I had to throw one little tidbit here, which was not previously planned (not that it's noticeable ;).

Special gratitude to my wonderful beta for this chapter - Gabriel. :)

_**Short list of names, personalities, etc.**_

_"…mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." (lat.) – _my fault, my grievous fault_._

_"… the mask of king Baldwin…" – _Genesis refers to King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem (died 1185) who because of leprosy had to wear an iron mask.

_Salic law – _a law, which excluded females from inheriting thrones or feuds in cases when those could not be unambiguously inherited according to agnatic primogeniture.

_William I or William the Conqueror _– the first Norman king of England after the battle of Hastings in 1066. Was known as William the Bastard because of the illegitimacy of his birth.

* * *

_**Chapter XLIV**__**.**_

_**A man and a king.**_

_**Part I.**_

_"Kings are earth's gods; in vice their law's their will."(W. Shakespeare, "Pericles")._

It was said that soils in the Southern provinces gave more abundant crops than anywhere else in France. Looking at the thawing dirt, Sephiroth could not tell the difference; slush was slush anywhere, but such was his desire to avoid the eyes of a priest that he kept staring at the ground, remaining unnoticeable in the crowd of armored nobles under the sham mask of humility.

"_Gloria in excelsis Deo_," cried the priest, lifting his arms towards the sky, "_Laudamus te. Benedicimus te…_"

"_Adoramus te. Glorificamus te_," soundlessly whispered the future king, repeating a prayer, which his stepfather had beaten into his not so royal head in early childhood, "_Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam..._"

While Sephiroth was present during the laudatory prayer, his mind was elsewhere, wandering the torturous paths of recollections about the morning battle. A small skirmish with Philip's forces, it turned into a bloody mess when reinforcements from both sides arrived, yet his vassals, whose faith in him by now verged on their faith in God, prevailed again.

"_Adoramus te. Glorificamus te_," mumbled the zealous priest, no longer mourning over the fallen but singing glory to the Almighty for their triumph.

The Duke of Burgundy stood by his side, bareheaded, with vacant eyes, brooding on his own troubles. The prayer did not compel his attention and by the way he held his sword, as though ready to rush into battle, Sephiroth could tell that his ally's thoughts wandered as far from unearthly matters as did his own. As selfish as their alliance was, Viscount du Bugey found himself feeling a small measure of genuine gratitude towards the redheaded Duke for the knowledge that the latter would never be repulsed by the cruelty of this war. Had he a weaker mind, their venture would be nipped in the bud.

On the last day of winter, the insurgents crossed the border of Languedoc, getting ready to approach Avignon and unite with the forces the Holy Emperor promised to provide, which they would have achieved had the blizzard not vented its anger over that part of Southern France. It was the last reminder of the winter's ire, accumulated by nature during benevolent summers, and its vehemence was not diminished by the closeness of spring. The heavy cavalry became stuck in the amassed snowdrifts, infantrymen froze alive, causing the unforeseen delay for the whole army, which Philip VI used to prepare an ambush; a pity that with more success the nearly dethroned king could try stopping an avalanche barehanded. Resistance was quelled cruelly and now they stood upon ashes of a burnt village, listening to the priest exalting God when the pools of blood, shed by their hands, had not yet dried out.

Unlike Genesis, he rarely pondered over the question of god. To Viscount du Bugey, the argument about the existence or non-existence of such a being provided philosophical entertainment, perhaps, but since it gave no answers on how to win a battle or rule a country, where he was used to relying on himself and his intuition, he continued to deem the metaphysical moiety of this question a pleasant pastime.

Sephiroth knew he would have to get used to public prayers and that it would take time to acquire tolerance for his own hypocrisy.

"…_Iesu Christe, cum Sancto Spíritu: in glória Dei Patris. Amen."_

"…_in Gloria Dei Patris, Amen.__"_ repeated he and faced the Duke of Burgundy. The crowd began dispersing and in the commotion which ensued, he had to raise his voice.

"I need a thorough report on the movement of Philip's forces. Before I stir up the nest of hornets in Avignon, I need to be certain that my rival is dead. I prefer to slay him in battle."

To show concordance of opinions, Odo nodded, "I will see to it that the maps are prepared whenever you are ready to intend an attack."

Sephiroth cast an exasperated glance at the sky wherefrom it has been snowing lightly since early morning. The sleet did not care where or when it fell; with the same indifference, heavy snowflakes landed onto the ermine of the king's cloaks and into the mud under their feet. Deceivingly harmless, they determined the outcome of countless campaigns. Fighting their own war, small, brave soldiers of a heavenly army meticulously won back the domain, which thaw had laid a claim to a few days before the tempest of elements. Soon, the water would ice over and once again, the insurgents would find themselves slowing down due to unforeseen circumstances.

He did not fail to express his misgivings to the Duke.

"Then, Your Majesty, there are even more reasons to do away with Philip de Valois. We would no longer have to dread him if during the siege of Chateau d'Agrilly, your acumen wasn't obscured by affection towards your friend."

"Now that Genesis is gone, how many times will you reproach me for the past mistake?" Sephiroth asked with indignation, withdrawing in the direction of his marquee, but the Duke, contrary to his expectations, did not follow.

It was dark inside and the ceiling offered a feeble protection against the weather. His banner hung in the corner, golden letters of his motto facing the entrance, dulled and nonetheless proud. Nothing changed since he left in the morning. The viscount was about to light a fire when someone's voice quietly hailed from behind.

"Sephiroth."

He flinched, reaching for the hilt of a sword when a painfully familiar figure, now garbed in loose travelling clothes, attracted his attention. In the corner, half-concealed by shadows, stood Genesis.

A myriad of thoughts flitted across Sephiroth's mind. Genesis' azure eyes kindled with joy, and for a heartbeat, the viscount in every fibre of his being felt the same insurmountable emotion, which followed the realization that it was his lover standing a few yards away in the flesh he could not forget no matter how many years would pass. He tried to grasp that, which his mind equated with the impossible, smiled even, yet a sudden painful recollection had a sobering effect on him. Out of fairness to both of them, Sephiroth allowed himself only a short, emotionless question.

"Do you know how foolish of you it was to come here?"

Genesis was thunderstruck. Evidently, his lover expected a different welcome from him.

"Foolish, you say? How little time has to pass between you promising me everything and accusing me of foolishness because I longed to reunite with you!"

"You do not understand…"

"To the Devil your reason and understanding!" On hearing his explanation, Genesis predictably exploded in anger. That predictability was what awoke his own irritation because the decision was not easily made and because his lover did not wish to respect the sacrifice. "Tell me, did you even try to save me?"

"I tried to help you by any means, which were within my power, limited by demands of war and my advisors," Sephiroth made a helpless gesture, "But I know nothing I said satisfied you. So I will try a different approach. Tell me what you wanted to hear. A pathetic excuse that I am an incompetent commander and-" he interrupted himself with a curt chuckle. "_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…_ "

Genesis cast a disdainful glance at him, "I don't know what I am doing here, talking to you. Notwithstanding what I had done in your name, notwithstanding the torture I endured, notwithstanding my hope, you greet me with dry sarcasm."

Perhaps he was a bit unfair. Sephiroth suppressed an urge to clutch his head in his palms. He wanted Genesis to leave and at the same time feared it, thus condemning any attempt to explain his intentions to the redhead for he did not understand them himself.

"When I learned of your capture, I divided my forces atwain and besieged Chateau d'Agrilly. I could have killed Philip there and then, but instead I chose to save your life," Sephiroth's eyes turned into a pair of smoldering coals. "I sent thousands to die for you and had I been given that choice again and again, I would do the same! Commoners, nobles, nameless followers, I sacrificed them all and I would pay that price if it were increased tenfold. I am glad you survived," he continued, calmer, "I am even glad to see you, but…"

"But?" A breathless whisper.

"How honest an answer would you like?"

"As honest as you can give me."

"They will seize and kill you while I would be helplessly watching, incapable even of lessening your pain. Is that honest enough? Odo does not know all details, yet suspects enough to conclude that you aren't a mere toy of mine, a fleeting passion. He might have heard the rumors my stepmother was spreading so meticulously or he made a conclusion on his own, but the outcomes are tantamount, which means that to save your life again I have to abandon you." Sephiroth purposelessly rearranged the writing materials on his table and continued in a changed voice, "Marguerite died if you must know."

Genesis nodded, barely acknowledging his last words. His lover's face, though pale, radiated inner resolve, which was not shaken by the news. On the contrary, however grim the revelations were, in them he seemed to have found a new kind of strength, an unfamiliar kind.

"I am staying with you, Sephiroth."

"Have you even heard a word I said?"

"I have, but vengeance isn't about reason or wisdom. You choose vengeance when the aforementioned reason, wisdom, and other tools of a feeble human mind had failed you!" Genesis looked at him with desperation, and yet it wasn't an expression of a contrite sinner; a wordless order hid in his gaze. "I can't leave now, when I am so close to seeing the undoing of my enemy and if it means I will die then so be it. This last death will be the most painless of all."

Sephiroth was surprised with his own calm response.

"I cannot let you do that," he said.

"I did not need your shoulder to cry on when a hangman tortured me with a white-hot iron. I did not need protection from your allies when I broke out of prison. I do not need your permission to make a decision."

"You are still _my_ lover…"

"Am I?"

What was he doing, fighting Genesis solely on the battlefield where he had no chance to win: passion? Sephiroth shook his head and, having suppressed anger, scrutinized the redhead. At first, he didn't notice underneath the mask of arrogance how Genesis changed, having become haggard, tired, faint with the wounds he had received. He held himself upright, but even as they conversed, his lover's strength seemed to have waned and left him to rely on pride only, which was wrongly believed to be an endless wellspring. Genesis was tortured. Endless was only the human ability to cherish faith in illusions.

"You…changed…" Sephiroth uttered all of a sudden.

"You changed as well," echoed Genesis with a bitter smile. "I can see a king, a perpetually smiling iron mask akin to the one that poor bastard Baldwin had to wear and I don't know whether I should love you now or hate."

"I was born to become a French king," he objected, "a living god to commoners and a compelling dream of jealous nobles."

Pawns, he thought to himself instead; pawns were no different than kings on a chess board, helpless, bounded by too many a law, but only a king could surrender his country.

"And where does that leave me? Outside the door to your chambers?" For a moment Genesis looked defeated, broken – a fragile figurine of porcelain. Then the moment of weakness passed, like a shadow of cloud over the sun. "I will not go as my place is here, by your side, and your goal, however flawed, however dangerous, is my goal."

Usually aware of each thought and movement, Sephiroth did not notice how or when he embraced Genesis, kissing him on the lips as if nothing between them had changed – as if the foolish monk had never preached on the square and Odo had not concocted a scheme – and only his fingers by feeling found a new, ugly scar under the flaxen shirt.

When the passionate kiss left them both breathless, Sephiroth moved away. "Tell me what had befallen you after that night at Calais."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Genesis' story was long and poignant. Viscount du Bugey was interrupted by a messenger from the Duke of Burgundy who reminded him of the urgent duties which could not be postponed. Yet, after a long reception held in the honor of his new ally, the Holy Emperor, after the reinforcements were given quarters and food, after discussing how to arrange Philip's demise – after another long day of feeling less like a man and more like a king – Sephiroth was back in the room with his lover. As before, it was sleeting and heavy snowflakes, rustling, fell onto the roof. Alber, who was joyous to learn about Genesis' return, guarded the entrance, ready to warn them about dangers of any kind. The boy was ever so faithful. He had stopped asking himself questions.

Sephiroth reclined on the bed and silently listened to the redhead's emotionless tale. Genesis was close, mere inches away and yet far enough to prevent any contact between them, besides a light touch of fingertips. Involuntary, too. Neither could think of something more passionate. Both were too tired.

Without interruption, Genesis enumerated his adventures, however mentioning naught of his feelings, whereof it was useless to ask. Possessing pride hardly weaker than his own, Genesis would not utter a single word about the details he deemed unimportant, and insisting on it could only lead to another pointless argument; pointless because it did not require a brilliant mind of a strategist to understand that the redhead was hurt.

The nobles he had slain at Chateau d'Agrilly, father and son, did not lie. Philip put his lover to torture.

"He will die for what his servants had done to you," Sephiroth said when Genesis finished his story and, coming from him, it was more than a promise. "Tomorrow my army will meet his, but you don't have to worry for the outcome is sealed. It is the end."

Genesis shook his head, "Somehow I don't feel it really is the end. The journey was too long, too hard, and the outcomes – unpredictable. What are you going to do when the ordeal is over?"

He laughed, "Rule France, of course. As I see fit. My allies disagree with my methods already, but once I find the Templar Knights, the scales of power will tilt permanently and – think of the irony – you gave me that idea. I did not deem it necessary to challenge the Pope, yet the advantages over time became clearer and clearer to me. I will give more power to the nobles who would serve in the regular army, reinforced by the Templars. One day I woke up, thinking what if I could amend a mistake my father had carelessly committed. What if I," a strange expression appeared on Sephiroth's face, "could make France the most powerful monarchy in the span of territories from Constantinople to Madrid?"

"These are words spoken by a true king."

"Don't flatter me, Genesis. Sooner than I wish, I would find myself in the company of the most eloquent adulators in the realm."

"I wasn't trying to flatter you. For three decades, jurors, clergymen, and nobles tried to solve the dynasty dispute, which appeared because the historically established ties between France and England became too close." Genesis smiled. "Flattery is for the weak; for those who wait for victory to effortlessly fall into their hands, as if it were a ripe apple."

"I thought about it and becoming a king to defeat Englishmen no longer satisfies me. In truth, nothing satisfies me. Every goal seems too small, too insignificant, having an outcome too fleeting, and I…" the viscount lifted his hands in dismay, "What am I talking about? Greatness is insatiable. In a way, you are correct and there can be no end. For instance, the battle at Crecy I thought had been my end begot consequences, which were beyond anyone's ability to foresee."

"In my prison I had plenty of time to go over the events of this year in my head. No one could anticipate the circumstances to take such a turn. Where do they leave us?" Genesis habitually coiled a silver lock around his finger, "I mused on human condition, on hope, which persistently instigates us to do unbelievable things, great things, and at the same time I could not dismiss a thought – at what cost to us and to others? How not to confuse a folly of fate with an opportunity worth of all passion spent on it? How not to make a mistake and at the same time avoid becoming a timid coward who is simply afraid to try? And what if our throes – the core of our existence, the struggle of a drowning man against the overpowering current – only form pitiful ripples on the water's surface, is it still worth trying? What is more important: how we perceive the world or how the world is? Truth or delusion?"

"I do not plead omniscience, but, only fancy, that everyone understands truth. Possessing truth, you possess power, and everyone cannot rule. Illusion is what the world is founded on. All of it…" The viscount made a listless movement with his hand, "illusion of symbols, perception…to a degree, we have to be delusional, but that degree depends solely on our choice. Someone has to be deceived and manipulated, however I prefer not to be reckoned among them. Think of knowledge we do not possess and how the church teaches us to accept the image of God, the image of Universe, of men, and how one _wrong_ question can lead you to painful death. Delusion is important."

"When I was a student at Sorbonne," continued Genesis, "I believed that truth could be taught; that truth _needed_ to be taught. After my mother's death, I took a small wooden sliver and with a white-hot needle wrote one word on it, that one fateful word, which would define me, so that under no circumstances would I forget why I was what I was. Truth is like a wooden sliver, limited to little facts that we know, that we _can_know, to draw a conclusion, but an inference will never be completely true. An inference is but a work of a few minds whereas history or universe, or humanity is immeasurably more complex. Delusion is important, you are right, for truth is a vain craving and we can find something only so close to it, within a distance of a stretched hand, like freedom is to a prisoner in a cart with one guarded window overlooking a vast field. But I digress…"

"No, no, I was listening."

Who knew whether or not it was the last evening they spent together? Sephiroth wanted to remember it.

"I lost that wooden sliver. It fell out of my pocket and burnt. What if with it, I inadvertently lost myself?"

"Now you are not making any sense. Reasonable and logical, you turn into a superstitious priest who believes in bad omens."

Genesis laughed, and as if a load had been taken off his mind, Sephiroth laughed with his lover.

"A pity it is that apples don't grow in winter."

"Do you want an apple?"

"Why not?" Genesis raised himself on his elbow and shook strands of hay out of his hair.

"Our provisions are scanty. I, their king, eat the food of commoners, smoked meat and dried apples. I do not think you want a dried apple."

Affectionately, Sephiroth ran his fingers along his lover's seamless jaw line. Then his gaze fell onto the window. In Genesis' company, hours turned into minutes and their meeting had come to an end although he was reluctant to ask his lover to depart.

He has been in denial of his own solitude for a long time.

When Sephiroth took Genesis' hand, it seemed weightless. "I see you kept the ring I gave you."

"Why wouldn't I? Do you still…" the redhead's fingers clenched his with force.

"I do." Sephiroth replied softly. Would it change much if the king in him still remembered how to be a man? Sephiroth took a warm cloak and wrapped it around his lover's shoulders. "Meet me at Avignon. Alber will help you get past my guard." He embraced Genesis once again and let him go. "I will eliminate the Pope. Then, perhaps, there will be hope for us."

He opened the door into the cold and ordered Alber to escort Genesis out of the encampment with utmost precaution, standing by the threshold until two small figures pinpointed out of sight. He felt disquiet and hated the feeling at the same time as it was not in his nature to accept weaknesses easily. Genesis was his weakness. What others called strength he called a flaw, because his affection could be used against him, it could make him falter and doubt, and feel guilt.

Tall and motionless, he appeared a statue. Cold and heartless, he was a king. With a rueful smile on his lips, he still remained a man.

A man or a king, in the end he knew who would win although the inner struggle would not be painless. And, maybe, in the twilight of life only he would finally find a small measure of peace within himself.

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

"Your Majesty," a man in bloodied armor made a low bow, "the Duke of Burgundy has joined the battle. By golly, what are we supposed to do?"

Sephiroth turned in the saddle, directing his eyes to the blurred line in the distance where the bright morning sun glimmered on the steel of armor and swords. The village was ablaze, but in the sunlight glare, orange flames seemed faded, harmless, and if not for the quivering air – almost invisible.

"Describe the situation," ordered the viscount.

"The forces of Philip VI are completely surrounded. There, you see," the man pointed with his sword and grinned. "We torched the village, and brightly it burns, honest to God, brightly and merrily. Rats desert a sinking ship only to drown in water, Your Majesty."

"We are joining as well."

Sephiroth dismissed the garrulous squire and unsheathed his sword. The world narrowed to a familiar slit in his helmet, and having his vision gravely impaired annoyed this time because finding Philip in this mayhem could becomes a challenge.

There remained no doubt in Sephiroth's mind who would win, no anxiety in his heart; calmness descended upon him in the morning, when a herald finally delivered the news he wanted to hear since he experienced a failure at Chateau d'Agrilly, as a result of which the king absconded. The blizzard, although delaying them, also helped them gain an advantage when, tempted by their seemingly hopeless condition, the king of France decided to take his last stand against the insurgents and lost. Again. As if trapped in a nightmare without end, Philip VI kept losing to Sephiroth – yielding lands, provisions, gold, and adherents, amongst whom few were loyal enough to die with their leader – until the time has come to stifle the opposition so that the hydra of Valois dynasty would never raise its heads.

The battle never stilled since the early hours of dawn, breaking out here and there and likening the stricken field to a harmless tug in lifting weights or throwing stones, a popular Scottish game. One side would initiate and the other would try to surpass it in strength and skill. Sephiroth could give the devil his due for the last, desperate attempts to fight for a lost cause, but other than that, no sympathy for the king lingered in his heart; moreover, with a filament of excitement he waited for the moment when a person, responsible for his lover's torture, would finally perish by his hand.

At the head of the detachment, Sephiroth stormed into the burning village. The streets wound in the thick, acrid smoke one after another, sordid and indistinguishable. On each side stood houses with broken windows, curious observers of every depredation, and bodies lay scattered across the yards as if in a deep slumber. Spears and swords protruded from chests and backs. One was pinned, like a butterfly, to the wall, another – slaughtered by the stairs, the third froze with an ensign between his shoulder blades and the fourth one was missing a head. They were dead, but somewhere in the deceiving quiescence, it seemed, their cries still lingered, not for the ears to hear, but to haunt in darkness, in dreams. Sometimes Sephiroth encountered horses, these selfless, unsung heroes who remained loyal to their masters until the end, when even comrades deserted and God averted His face with disinterest. Having slowed down the steed's gallop, the viscount intently observed the surroundings in search of his rival, but Alber sighted the king's banner first and screamed, "Your Majesty! Over here!"

Surrounded by his last servants, Philip VI held a position by the well and a half-destroyed building of what seemed to be a church. It wasn't too bad, Sephiroth thought to himself, eyeing the sight in front of him and taking notice of advantages and disadvantages. War was, however, the province of chance.

Ordering his detachment not to intervene, Viscount du Bugey urged his steed towards the church. Two guards who stood in his way fell victim to a flamboyant brand and his prancing horse shattered the charred leaves, exposing a sight no one could expect. At the end of the long isle, in a chapel so bare that a devil's dozen knights with their horses could stand side by side, knelt the uncrowned king of France, praying. He wore a simple hair shirt while his clothes, armor and jewelry were piled to his left. Two nobles remained by his side, each holding a candle.

Taken aback, Sephiroth alighted and approached Philip.

"Fight me!" He ordered angrily.

"For what reason, pray tell me?" Listlessly responded the king. "To give you satisfaction?" The nobles made a move to protect their sovereign, but he stopped them with a truly royal gesture. "Nobody else will die in my name, not while I am still breathing. I know you came to kill me and I am ready. I found peace with God."

Sephiroth restrained a desire to shake this man – this _worthless_ man – and remind him that he should at least die a king.

"Do you still remember the battle at Crecy? Do you remember how I warned you about their longbows and how you and your retinue mocked me for being a lowly viscount? Alençon died, I heard, paid the price, and you…how long did you think my forbearance would last?"

"I found peace with God," stubbornly repeated the king, trembling.

_Always a coward…_

Sephiroth plunged his sword into Philip's stomach and, gripping his shoulder, turned the blade, freed it with ease, and thrust into his chest. The king's eyes widened and he gasped for breath with a gurgling sound, paralyzed by creeping coldness and excruciating pain. The viscount relinquished the grip and, falling, Philip heard quiet, malignant words; his last words.

"Genesis was my lover."

It was hard for the viscount to believe that the bleeding body at his feet was once a man and a king, that his opponent, powerless, was clawing the floor in agony; that his lover, the ignominy of the defeat at Crecy, and months of helpless anger towards the French throne were avenged and he was free from the onerous burden – like a mighty, airy spirit free.

The ground wobbled. A heartbeat, and the debility passed.

The crowd was silent, dumbfounded by the suddenness of what had occurred – imagining to witness Philip's death was not the same as witnessing it – until a lone spectator squealed at the top of his lungs, "The king is dead!"

And, as one, awaking out of stupor, roared his allies, "Long live the king! Long live the king! Long live the king!"

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Sephiroth wiped the bloodied sword with a piece of oiled cloth, leaning heavily on it from unexpected fatigue. The desire to sit down and recline against the stone well was overwhelming, but he could not let himself display feebleness of mind or body openly. Somebody, an ally or an enemy, was watching him and after Philip's death, Viscount du Bugey happened to be in direct confrontation with the lawful heir to the throne, John. Even so, he felt like a king.

He _was_ a king.

Slowly, as though savoring each moment of this simple realization without even the smallest interruption, Sephiroth brought a mug of ice-cold water to his lips and avidly drunk.

_Finally_.

"Send the messengers everywhere: to the Holy Emperor, to every major city nearby, to England, to Avignon. I want the Frenchmen to know that the king has been slain and a bastard from the House of Capet will replace him on the throne."

"Yes, messire," Alber hurried to carry out the orders, and Sephiroth turned to the Duke who stood therebeside with a cheerful expression of a victor.

"The day after tomorrow we shall enter Avignon."

**(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)**

Avignon's Palace for Popes honorably rivaled the most resplendent castles of European monarchs. Towering proudly above the square and the nearby buildings, it offered a cheerless and weather-beaten front to the cavalcade, hiding as a knight under the breastplate its kind and gentle heart. Long ago, Sephiroth visited Avignon's Palace. It was summer then, and gardens in the courtyards, surrounding the stone structures, blossomed with white, purple, and bloody-red. The winter left but a bleak realm of stones and ice in their stead. The frost weaved cobwebs of white lace on the windows, left oddly-shaped icicles hanging from protuberant roofs, yet it wasn't within its power to dispel the mob. People fearfully crowded together by the road, and the horses of Sephiroth's retinue had to cut through the throng so thick that it appeared as if the whole Europe had gathered in Avignon to watch the confrontation between two dynasties escalate and reach its pinnacle.

The arch of the main gate, decorated with intricate bas-relief, was heavily guarded and a wall of living bodies barred the way for curious inhabitants who would otherwise follow the procession into the courtyard. Instead, they bunched up without the arch, craning forward so that nothing of what was occurring in the yard could escape their inquisitive eyes, and their cries reached his ears together with the solemn peal of church bells, which struck the windows, spilling a crystal waterfall of sounds over the square. Sephiroth, despite the dull ache in his head, which awakened due to the noise, could not blame them. The enormous courtyard presented a magnificent sight: twofold rows of the Pope's personal guard stood motionless, their uniforms and banners being droplets of molten colors in the rigorous realm of gray – gray stones, gray towers, gray roofs – which crushed a spark of human spirit by accentuating its worthlessness against the redoubtable bulk of the Palace. It seemed that the steeples touched the sky, and like that the structure mocked them. Facing the arch, in the opposite part of the courtyard, a stone flight of stairs formed an ascent to the tall, wooden leafs, which led to the inner chambers of the palace. Atop froze a gathering as different from the one below as the Palace was from the buildings in its vicinity, striking the ragged spectators with splendor and inspiring them with fear. Sephiroth could not be easily impressed, but even he had to admit that the mitred cardinals in scarlet and golden garments possessed a considerable power over the minds of citizens, which could make this ordeal a dangerous one.

The cavalcade slowly approached the stairs and dismounted. Sephiroth was the first to step onto the granite stones, followed shortly by the Duke of Burgundy. Aside from the ermine cloak, the viscount wore a cotardie with an undershirt, adhering to his austere style with prevailing black and blue colors, and only the long sleeves were adorned with golden embroidery. He did not come to Avignon to compete with the Pope and his cardinals in richness of attire. He had an army whereas the city's defenses were feeble: about half a thousand mercenaries and thrice as much poorly armed home guard, of which only a small share felt enough loyalty and zeal to fight for the Pope.

Guillaume de Melun, the Archbishop of Sens, greeted them at the end of the staircase, in every gesture betraying reluctance and indignation with whoever had entrusted him with such a humiliating errand.

"Milord," the gilded mitre reflected a chance sunray when the archbishop bowed his head, "His Holiness Clement VI heeded your request and granted an audience."

The cardinal made it sound as if the Pope had a choice, a pitiful attempt to conceal the wretched state of things and pretend that the Church was still in power. From Sephiroth's side, it was a mere formality and although he agreed to negotiate, he also prepared terms which Clement would never accept. The Pope had to die; his blood would avenge Genesis and show the Templar Knights that he was willing to cross many boundaries to gain their benevolence. He was secretly hoping that they were already watching his actions and at least one unobtrusive face in the crowd belonged to a spy.

"I appreciate the willingness, with which His Holiness responded to my request," Sephiroth in turn politely nodded, looking around. In his tenacious memory, he kept recollections of numerous places for however unlikely a situation when he would be obliged to besiege or protect them. Avignon's Palace was grandiose, numbering twelve main towers, at least three extensive courts, and vast galleries without count, hence to capture a castle of this magnitude, blood would have to be spilled. Perhaps the prelates counted on him being threatened by the thought of battle, in which case they gravely underestimated his determination and will.

Speculating upon such a possibility, Sephiroth followed his guide through a long gallery, flooded with light. Thin, weightless rays fell through the high windows, interweaving on the walls and ceiling to form deceiving shapes in the corner of his eye, like the fluttering of butterfly wings or the flicker of an inflamed candlewick. Marble floors reflected the sound of footfall. Yet, what created the most memorable impression was not even the emptiness or solemnity, but the windows, each a height of six or seven knights in full armor, which gaped as portals into the white nothingness.

A foolish promise of paradise.

Clement VI received them in an audience chamber of quite generous proportions – it could have contained three or four dinner halls akin to the one in Chateau de Thil where Sephiroth grew up. A row of columns propped up the ceiling, emerging from semi-darkness like forgotten giants of antiquity, frozen in the gilded rain of dust with their hands lifted aloft and heads stubbornly titled downwards. Two tables occupied the center of the room, facing each other at a small distance. One was set aside for Viscount du Bugey and his retinue, the other was already occupied by the Pope and his cardinals. Sephiroth knew the most eminent amongst them; herein gathered the Archbishop of Sens, the bishop of Rouen, cardinal de Chalus and many more doubtlessly virtuous, fine-looking prelates and jurors. Clement himself honored the gathering with his presence, standing out even among his closest servants by manners, with which he held himself, and by the godless luxury of his vestment, white with specks of crimson, like blood, rubies. He was a lively old man of proud stature with a head as smooth and bare as a knee of a newborn and ambitious designs under the bald spot; a man in his conduct quite impetuous and supercilious, which made him an unreliable ally and a dangerous foe.

So the flock of crows had flown together, Sephiroth thought. He despised the clergy even stronger than the king he had slain.

"Milords," The Pope extended his arms as if about to embrace the whole gathering, a pose of Christ the martyr, "We have been brought together to discuss the request of this man, a faithful son and servant of God, regarding his claim to the throne of France after our sovereign was called upon by the Almighty into Heaven so that we would be convinced about the legitimacy and sincerity of his desires."

Murmurs spread around the vast room as if the honorable prelates were unaware of his true intentions, but, despite the gravity of the situation, Sephiroth felt an inappropriate surge of gaiety. If he came to compete with Clement in eloquence, he would have to lay down arms and shamefully admit defeat for it has been so long since anyone had called him a faithful son and servant of God. Genesis would be irreplaceable in this predicament, but his lover…no, he had no time to dwell on their misfortunes.

"Rise, Viscount du Bugey, regent of Nevers and Flanders, born Sephiroth Mensil, the heir to the House of Capet." He rose. "Speak your will before this noble gathering without an evil intent and let God be our Judge to settle this conflict."

And so he spoke. Tersely and in a quaint manner, he stated his intentions and demands, befitting to the title he was about to receive. A scribe in the corner had not yet covered two vellum pages with his small and neat handwriting when the viscount met with a first obstacle, a barrier of misunderstanding and hostility, with which the cardinals listened to his explanations about the relationship to the French throne he had through his father. One of the jurors had meekly expressed his doubts, but then cardinal de Chalus, having, too, quitted his seat, took the audacity to declare.

"Under no condition will our court allow such an unprecedented infringement upon the law, which is older than any parvenu, even of royal origins. He respects neither the traditions, which has been the foundation of our society for many a decade, nor the deceased king who has an heir twenty seven years of age capable, both physically and mentally, to inherit the throne."

"Esteemed milords," Sephiroth could not hide a sharp, sarcastic smirk when a concordant whisper, swelling, went around the room, "might I remind you that my claim is neither unprecedented nor without grounds? Three centuries ago a bastard ascended the English throne by no other rights than the strength of his armies and noble origins; by no other law than his boldness. He became known as William the Conqueror. As to John de Valois, if he abdicates, his life will be spared and we will let him spend the rest of his days in a quiet, remote monastery."

No, he thought to himself, Philip's son would have to be killed to prevent any future dynasty disputes.

The jurors and cardinals exchanged quick glances.

"It makes you a usurper," said Archbishop of Sens, "and we will not tolerate it. Hath this court forgotten that some of us participated in the reestablishment of the Salic law three decades ago when the first son of Philip IV died without an agnatic heir? Hath this court forgotten how ten years later, we refused the claim of the English king himself on the grounds that his relation to the French throne was through his mother, Isabella? Hath this court forgotten that we would not be threatened by however strong a foe?"

"Yet, you did not succeed because a few years later the English king invaded and pillaged the shores of France."

"How dare you blame this Christian court for failing to curb the greed of foreign invaders?"

Then, when the stalemate seemed imminent, rose a gaunt man, from clew to earing garbed in luxurious vermillion, which accentuated the parchment yellowness of his skin. His wrinkled face bore clear signs of weariness, yet thence at the world gazed bright-gray eyes, untouched by age, remaining the sole reminder that once their holder was young and vigorous.

Sephiroth found himself staring at one of his father's former advisors, Jean de Marigny.

"The Salic law, milords," the old cardinal uttered in a voice, which was in keeping with his stature, quiet yet imperious, "does not apply to the agnatic descendants of kings born in or out of wedlock. Being the son of Philip IV, he would inherit the kingdom after his esteemed father and not his mother. If you want to deny his claim, you need to find a different legal reason."

Silver eyebrows arched in a display of amusement. Among crows and vultures, he did not expect to find even a temporary ally.

"What do you suggest, de Marigny?" asked cardinal de Chalus in a displeased tone.

"There is not even a mention of him in the church archives," another prelate thrust in a word and his suggestion found immediate support.

"Yes, how do we know he is not an impostor?"

"We heard nothing about Philip's bastard for years."

"What lies did Satan prepare for God's servants?"

"Let Him scheme! We will stand firmly against your designs, Beelzebub!"

"Quiet, Guillaume, do not speak his name aloud!"

In the flurry, only the Pope, the Duke of Burgundy, and Jean de Marigny managed to keep their composure. Other cardinals leapt up from their seats, angrily shaking their fists, shouting contradictory remarks, and in every way possible making themselves look fools. Sephiroth kept aloof from the argument, and only a fastidious grimace on his face betrayed strained attention, with which he harkened to every thought, spoken or implied.

The mayhem continued, threatening, like fire, to spread over the opposite party until the Pope grew impatient and silenced them with a peremptory shout.

"That is enough, milords!"

"Forgive my impudence, Your Holiness," at once, cardinal de Marigny availed himself of the quiescence, which ensued after Clement had intervened, "Our dispute is, per se, needless. The majority of the esteemed prelates can prove that the man in question is indeed the last son of Philip IV. I have been present when His Majesty drew his last breath and," Spidery fingers, covered with heavy rings of gold and silver, leafed through the parchment on the table, "in his will, Philip IV remembered his illegitimate child in the event that he would one day come to realize his origins and act accordingly."

While the cardinals scrutinized the parchment, Sephiroth had to fight another surge of resentment. Did his stepfather know about this will or did he, like others, conspire against the viscount to keep it clandestine? He felt needlessly reminded of the past.

"So the will exists," mused the Pope. "But I won't be easily persuaded. You should have presented your claim before the Valois dynasty had occupied the throne."

"I was fourteen, Your Holiness."

"For this court, your age at that year is insignificant." The Pope seemed suddenly in haste to end the negotiations. "The will is no longer valid and without it, your birth right means less than a faded coat of arms on a banner. Since your requests cannot be satisfied in any court, we suggest you support the legitimate king."

"I did not come so far to accept denial, Your Holiness. I shall besiege Avignon and drown its streets in blood," hiding a triumphant smile, replied Sephiroth. The deepest form of understanding lay not in comprehending what a man thought, but why he held such a view, and the viscount knew perfectly well why the Pope made this decision.

"You will not dare!" Someone exclaimed.

"Try me."

In deathly quiet, his cold reply loudly resounded under the vast ceiling.

…A cardinal overtook Sephiroth when he was leaving the Pope's tower. Viscount du Bugey had turned into the side gallery, narrow and dark, when someone hailed him from behind. Only now did he notice that the hour was late, nearing vespers, and the light in high windows had waned. Mysterious and in its curiosity insatiable, semi-darkness had flooded the galleries of the grandiose Palace and in its sea, the small human figures drowned, faded like smoldering coals.

Upon hearing his name, Sephiroth halted and eyed the unexpected intruder as he attempted to elbow his way through the crowd of Odo's knights.

"Let him through."

The knights parted, revealing a figure he recognized from before; perhaps, he should have guessed it would be cardinal de Chalus who shouted with most zeal only to conceal his own ambitions.

"Cardinal de Chalus?" He nonetheless inquired with amazement, which to a degree was not feigned.

"Milord du Bugey, may I have a word with you? In private," he added when the Duke of Burgundy displayed intentions to join the discourse.

Sephiroth nodded, approaching one of the enormous windows and beckoning the venerable prelate to follow.

"I am all ears, messire."

"Good, very good. But firstly, may I clarify our intentions to prevent unfortunate misunderstandings, unfortunate and grave indeed, in our circumstances even fatal? Those I serve…yes, don't look at me with such surprise, my child, I did not devote my soul solely to our Almighty Father…so, yes, those I serve…" he interrupted himself again, and this time, the pause lasted longer; Sephiroth let the old cardinal gather his thoughts without attempting to dispel the latter's suspicions. "They have long been watching you in uncertainty because your father, your _honorable_ father," hatred flitted in the otherwise expressionless eyes of his interlocutor, "had caused them much trouble. Much indeed. They know how bravely you fought against the Englishmen and later, against the deceased king. A sign of admirable, admirable determination. Our country is on the verge of plunging into chaos. Many will use this moment to snatch more power for themselves, to steal from the crown although it is poor already. They want to return, but they trust no one…you must understand, they don't trust you either. But before we even talk about significant details, I must know…I must hear it from you, messire…"

"What is it?"

"Our eavesdroppers had caught your spies and thus we know that you do not, in truth, seek peace with the Pope."

Sephiroth felt overwhelmed. He did not expect a turn of events so sudden; too sudden, too _comfortable_ for his logical mind to accept without troubling itself with consequences of a possible error and numerous explanations to eagerness seemingly sincere. Nothing useful came to his mind this time. The viscount lifted his gaze to the gaping portal as if questioning the darkness, but the only answer was a draught, which caught and scattered long, silver locks.

"No," he finally admitted, "I don't."


	46. Chapter XLV: A man and a king, part II

_**A/N:**_I think it is about time I finish it. Well, kinda. There are still 3 chapters left to write.

**Warning**: this and the following chapters are rated **R** for extreme violence, morbid content, and multiple character deaths. I was asked to put up a warning so here it is.

_Note_: It was very hard for me to find historical traces of nephew of Jacques de Molay, but eventually I safely concluded that such a figure existed. However, considering that to know his fate, I would probably have to get to the archives of French history, I took my liberty to let him live until 1346 (not that it essentially changes anything).

* * *

_**Chapter XLV.**_

_**A man and a king.**_

_**Part II.**_

Ever since Genesis was a child, he was afraid of blindness, of that impregnable black veil that clouded his sight in slumber and behind which out of depths of his feverish imagination, visions so vivid were born that for a while he doubted they could be simple dreams. Later, he concluded that his young mind on its own accord decided to protect itself from the inrush of images of his mother's auto-da-fe by creating an illusion and thus convincing him that reality was a mere game of imagination. Genesis used to compare his mind to a clever cardsharper, switching what it deemed a losing card with a winning one. However, the redhead learned his mind's tricks and the last time he fell victim to them was long before he met Sephiroth.

Wasn't it?

A dead body of a young girl lay on dirty wooden floor. Pale sun shone through the dusty windows of a small house, adding like an artist a few finishing strokes to the macabre painting. The girl's throat was slit and blood abundantly stained her dress and his hands although Genesis did not remember entering the house let alone finding the dagger and murdering her. But he knew that the girl was soiled, dirty, _guilty_ of desecrating the Church by fornicating with one or more of its members. He knew… somehow…

_How?_

Genesis buried his face in both palms. His body shook in violent tremors. The decision disguised itself as his although deep inside the redhead knew that _they_ finally claimed _their_ victory, now taunting him and his futile efforts to recall a detail or two. Anything. He remembered conversing with Sephiroth; he remembered his lover saying _right_ words, which were meant to assuage his pain if only he could believe that sweet lie. The _right_ words lacked sincerity. To the king he became a burden too onerous to carry on his shoulders and as for any burden, for Genesis too came the due time to be discarded and forgotten. For old time's sake, Sephiroth did not let the cruel words to be exchanged between them, but he had enough acumen to perceive the hidden, _unspoken_ meaning.

Staggering, the redhead stepped over the dead body and clutched the windowsill to steady himself. Heavily leaning onto the wooden jut, he set the window ajar and peered into the street. Sunlight percolated through the thick clouds, obliquely falling onto the empty road. The snow lay glib as glass and hard as steel. In the distance, tall and pointed towers of the Palace stabbed the air like devil's fingers. Ruffled birds perched on the rooftops and weather vanes, which carelessly twirled in the wind, flaunting before their freezing kindred the glittering splendor of untarnished copper and tin feathers. By the Pope's decree, all domes and steeples were decorated with weather cocks to immortalize Peter's betrayal and from every roof the bird now screamed: behold, good citizens, this was Peter, who renounced his faith in Jesus three times, the silent Peter, the perfidious Peter, as though the whole life of the most devoted Apostle boiled down to that singular display of weakness. Blazoned. Glorified.

Avignon was wrapped in a shroud of restless slumber, like a dragon guardian of the Nibelung treasure biding for an audacious adventurer to infringe upon its peace and riches. Genesis could recall something else. A crowd so thick that it seemed every house in Avignon had poured forth its inhabitants into the streets gathered in the state of unrest in front of the Palace to meet a magnificent procession led by Sephiroth himself. The king entered Avignon, threatened its integrity, daring to be that courageous adventurer who woke the dragon, but instead of inflicting upon him a final defeat, he left, always so circumspect, so cunning. Beautiful son of the Devil. Those memories, as long splinters from the wound, were painful to pull out. Genesis had enough acumen to understand the hidden, _unspoken_ meaning, didn't he?

Having slammed the window with such a desperate force that the glass tinkled in the frame, Genesis slumped inside, wrapping his arms around his knees. Blood hammered in his temples and dismay was smothering him. Then, uplifted by sudden influx of anger, the redhead jumped to his feet and ran out into the street. Without breaking stride, without direction, he walked, keeping to the shadows cast by the protruding structures and glancing back at every, however rare, passer-by.

"Now I am here," abandoned to cheerless thoughts, he whispered to himself, "in this sordid, filthy town – no, outwardly, it appears tidy and unblemished, this cradle of virtue and temperance, yet the insides had rotten. But who am I to judge? I came here for vengeance; I came to see streets drowning in blood which would be spilled from hundreds of bodies – hundreds of souls immolated for one – and to know a pleasure which is not in kinship with any other. I, a son of a peasant girl, am holding the Damocles' sword over the head of the Pope himself. What a madman could have dreamed of that, and yet here I am! I am setting myself free... " He halted, clasping hands to his chest to calm the frantic heartbeat. "Truth? Truth… The truth is that after years of feeding flames of my anger, I no longer know how it feels to be free."

"Look at them, Genesis. They willingly wear rags of forfeited splendor, rich or poor, in the name of one power which united and then enslaved them. For the poor it promised justice, to the rich it gave gold. They, too, are guilty. The Pope is but one man, a mighty inaccessible man, yes, but bringing an end to his reign lies within the power of another man. I needed Sephiroth to be that man for whichever reason. I did everything right. But within their hearts and souls flourishes the true might of the Catholic Church and whereas it will lose strength, like a plague, from one diseased to another, its influence shall spread and thus I can never hope to be truly victorious."

"Or… it is simply my - not their – fault."

Genesis halted again. His face was flush from brisk pace of the walk and from contending passions locked within his soul. Before his eyes, rose the bell tower of the Avignon's Cathedral which served as the burial place to several Popes, but the Palace dwarfed it despite its considerable height and eclipsed its fine architecture so that instead of embellishing the city, the building rather evoked pity or contempt. Small clusters of idlers were scattered across the square which resembled a Roman forum. People, gesticulating wildly, exchanged agitated remarks and among them hucksters bustled about, offering trinkets for half a price.

"Avignon… besieged… will the enemy assault us?"

"There is a whole army outside the gates… in the name of Jove, yes…"

"Hats, venerable sires, for your wives and daughters… Hats… "

"They must be brave… or mad…"

"We never submitted to the French crown…"

"Does it mean we will be paying new taxes?"

Several times he caught Odo's and Sephiroth's names being mentioned.

"Sephiroth," the redhead continued his monologue, seating himself on the church porch, "why do you haunt me wherever I go? Freedom, freedom I long, but none I shall have until I am with you and you are with me. I have to go, but I cannot and thus I hate myself for being helpless and you for all you have given me and for all you have taken from me. You do not understand what it means to be insignificant. Could you live such life as I do – if you can even call this a _living_?" Genesis threw back his shoulders which shook from soundless laughter. "To save my life you must abandon me, you say. Can't you see? I need naught of your benevolent concessions. I need naught… I did not wish to hear what you had to say… I…"

The redhead must have shouted his last words aloud because people were openly gazing at him, befuddled by his erratic behavior, and then in silence a familiar voice suddenly uttered, "Devil's spawn."

Genesis turned around only to notice a hunched back of a small man disappearing in the crowd, and for a moment the memory made him forget about the Pope, about his lover, about the Duke's avowal to kill him.

It could not have been Loki, could it?

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

"He is waiting for you in the next room, Your Majesty," said Cardinal de Chalus, bowing his head to pass through the narrow, low door.

Sephiroth froze on the threshold, harkening to the melody of dripping water. The secret meeting place his unexpected ally chose turned out to be an abandoned barn in the outskirts of Avignon, an old building with a roof, damaged by foul weather, and walls, which were not properly repaired for years. Viscount du Bugey confined himself to taking only a small detachment of guards to the meeting point, amongst whom Alber was his closest servant. The Duke of Burgundy did not fail to express numerous misgivings upon Sephiroth's sudden announcement to leave in the middle of the night, however, the de facto king of France insisted on going alone. He told Odo that he would not let suspicion destroy the seeds of trust he had carefully sown in the minds of his new allies, the Templars.

Crammed with chairs, discolored carpets, and various decorative items, the granary resembled the dwelling of vagabond thieves, however, having looked closer, Sephiroth found the same traces of desolation on the surface of the objects – mold, stains, cobwebs – that he noted on the walls and insides of the barn. Whatever purpose it served after being abandoned by peasants or merchants, the premises have not been put to good use for a while although the faint smell of grain still lingered about.

"Welcome to my temporary abode," a voice rang from the adjacent room, in which Sephiroth found a chair, a table with writing materials on top, a small chest of sturdy wood, and in the middle of which the holder of that voice stood – a short, slim man old enough to be his father. "I am not ashamed of modesty, Your Majesty. With age, the blatant luxury began to bore me and even before our Order fell, I, unlike some of my mundane brothers, exercised restraint in food, drinks, and expenditures."

He somewhat resembled Cardinal de Marigny, this spry, old man with sparkling eyes. A warrior of once great skill and fortitude was discernable in his bearing and in brisk movements as he confidently walked around the room, watching the king with intense mistrust. A short sword was affixed to his belt, and Sephiroth easily imagined that his hand was still very much capable of wielding it well.

"Who am I speaking to?" The viscount replied to the polite welcome.

"Why does it matter who I was, messire?" The stranger echoed, his burning stare turning vacant as if before him, the noble knight suddenly saw not the sordid room of an abandoned granary, but gilded columns and decorated furniture of the grand halls, which once belonged to the mighty order of warrior monks. "My titles are empty and my glory faded therefore you can simply address me by my humble name, Brother Jean. The Grand Master himself was my uncle, but much water has flowed under the bridges since then. Once before us trembled kings and prelates alike and now… our fate is no different than the fate of the Roman Empire after Romulus was deposed, and its name is oblivion. Human memory is short."

Feeling slightly uneasy in the presence of this man, whom the title of _fallen __grandeur_ suited unlike anyone else, Sephiroth reclined his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He expected to be welcomed by a high-ranking member of the disbanded Order, but the face-to-face meeting with a nephew of Jacques de Molay, whom Philip the Handsome ordered to torture and burn on an island in Siene, he justly regarded with deep worry. Draught swayed the thin flame of a dying candle and the quivering shadow imparted a sinister expression to the king's face, accentuating sharp features, thin nose, and the fine bow of his lips.

"Why would you trust me?"

"We were watching you, Your Majesty. We had spies in your stepfather's household since you reached the age of ten. Two assassination attempts on your life had failed before zealots who were eager to carry out the will of our last Grand Master perished or left the shores of France. His curse had no power over you. We saw the hand of God in your fate and foreswore our scheme, some believing you would never uncover the truth of your origins, others holding firm convictions that you were nothing like your father."

"I know what you wish to ask, messire. Once we were the power which had to be reckoned with, but it seemed to have thawed in the dungeons of Chinon together with the glory and sanity of our brothers. When we went into hiding, it was much easier to convince everyone that we vanished, seeped like water through fingers. You were wise not to be misled by obvious but simple impressions. A river either dries out, leaving a visible bed, or disappears underground, continuing to flow although a passer-by no longer sees it. Yes, many of us left the shores of France and travelled to Scotland, to Switzerland, to England… name a faraway land where we had not yet been. We mingled with the new orders, we discarded white cloaks and exchanged them for cassocks, we put on masks, but we survived. We are the river, which flows underground."

"What do you want now?"

"When you joined forced with the Holy Emperor, many of us finally accepted that your goal was not as simple as winning the French throne. The torment of our Grand Master was repaid tenfold, but the blood of innocent brothers which was lavishly spilled in torture chambers still screams for vengeance." The nephew of the Templar Grand Master convulsively gripped the back of the chair, bending over the king, his dark eyes flaring up as hell fires. "God forgive my rash words, but it was not by His will that the ruin was brought upon us. The Pope, poisoned by Satan's lies, issued a decree, disbanding our Order across Europe. The arms of the Catholic Church reach far and it is to the prelates that we owe our utmost humiliation. I cannot abide by these circumstances and you will help me."

Sephiroth thoughtlessly nodded to delay the moment when he would have to speak. The former Templar knight was well prepared for this conversation, revealing intentions to assassinate him and when that failed – to join him with indifference, which led the viscount to believe that Brother Jean deemed such an inference self-evident. All these years, unbeknownst to him, a spy of the Templar knights was watching him, and thus they had always been one step ahead… or so they thought. The outcomes of the battle at Crecy could not be predicted, not unlike the fall of Samael in the Biblical apocrypha.

And yet to dispel last suspicions that he was played like a fool, Sephiroth asked, "What about Genesis?"

"If you speak of that monk who has been sighted by your side, then your misgivings are false, messire. We could only dream of a spy who would get so close to you."

"Well then," he continued with a careless gesture, meant to show that Jean's words satisfied him, "what can you offer me? When I first considered rebelling against the French king, I believed in effectiveness of my campaign at Calais, the success of which the siege of Paris had to have upheld. With time, however, I understood that the Church would thwart all my carefully conceived intentions with rather worrisome ease, using flaws in my heritage to turn the Frenchmen against my insurrection by excommunicating me. I could not rely on them remaining loyal to me as Scotts were to Robert the Brus."

"Despite what my allies thought, I never believed you left France, and since I planned to march against the Pope, aiming to undermine the influence of the Catholic Church, regardless, I deemed we both could benefit from this alliance. I understand you shared the same convictions, however, seeing this," one corner of Sephiroth's lips rose upwards, "I no longer hold certainty you can be of significant assistance. Was I wrong, Brother Jean, and that which once belonged to the Templar: riches, knowledge, and uncanny mastery of combat skills, had indeed vanished to forever remain a legend?"

For a moment, it seemed that Jacques' nephew would be undone by the conceited remark: a painful grimace distorted his features, on his forehead a vein swelled, and blood surged to his cheeks, but with visible effort he swallowed anger and concealed injured vanity.

"It is true that many of us abandoned France!" He exclaimed. "But it was not the sign of either cowardice, which His Majesty accused me of, or weakness. Your father delivered us a treacherous blow, however, we were forewarned and our treasure, our power was salvaged from underneath the ruins. Forewarned, forearmed – they say. Your father found less than a tenth of our wealth, a poor contentment compared to what he wanted to gain after our annihilation. We took the rest and in small quantities sent it off to our brothers abroad, yet most of our riches still remain hidden and buried, awaiting their turn. No greedy hand will be laid upon them. I rallied our loyal brothers here and upon my call others shall too return to support you against the Church; and if that is not enough to arouse your interest, you would not refuse our aid in such doubtlessly sensitive issue as the Pope's death." And with those words, the former Templar knight bent over the king's shoulder and whispered into his ear the rest of his prepared speech.

"You realize," Sephiroth said when Brother Jean finished speaking, "that I cannot restore your Order, however, I can guarantee you positions close to the throne. I will need a new constable and knights to command and serve in the regular army who will receive land in Flanders once I reclaim it. After my crown is secured, I will proceed to exonerate the Templar Order from blame, which should put an end to the persecution of the knights in many European countries."

"How?"

"After Clement dies, I will seize control of Avignon in the moment of panic and force the cardinals to elect a candidate who will ensure my ascension to the throne. I will not allow the conclave to reach the stalemate as it happened three decades ago by pressing the cardinals to consider their vote within the span of two days."

The old man who preferred to be called Brother Jean nodded his head a few times.

"Aren't you afraid of God's retribution?"

"Are you?"

"It was a foolish question, I see… foolish... Yes, I can accept these terms for now. With time, you might find it beneficial to restore our Order, but should it happen otherwise, we would be content uniting under the French banner after we avenge the Papacy. Alas, we cannot achieve much alone. Hence you will find in us a powerful ally, and if you adhere to the terms of our agreement, we will share our sacred knowledge with the crown. But if Your Majesty betrays us, such fate will befall you that in comparison with it, your father's unenviable demise will seem a merciful deliverance."

The king rose from the chair, straightened his shoulders to further suppress an unpleasant feeling which crept over him every time his gaze fell upon the old Templar knight, who stood there like a lone shard of his past; his or his father's, did not really matter. No, Sephiroth was not going to blame himself for Philippe's doing; rather than guilt, he felt unfamiliar sadness and uneasiness, to which he finally found the reason. When he looked at Brother Jean, Viscount du Bugey did not see an old man, whose days on Earth were numbered, but a whole epoch he embodied: it lived in his gestures, in his manner of speech; it spoke of feats on faraway battlefields, of white cloaks fluttering in dry, desert wind, and mighty preceptories towering above the sea shores; it quivered in the candle flame, permeated the air of the abandoned barn, and silently gazed at him from the depth of the old knight's eyes. Rare as it was, a man could be an epoch.

The short, bloody epoch of warrior monks.

"I hope it will not come to that," Sephiroth's chin touched his breastplate. For a moment, the king changed countenance from imperturbable to passionate, the wild spark in his green eyes imparting to his refined features an insane expression as he whispered to himself, "and with your aid, our progeny will one day inherit the world."

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

"I must urgently speak to His Majesty."

Alber raised his head with a jerk, focusing his stare on the messenger in the colors of the Holy Emperor, and briefly mused on whether he should usher the visitor in. Loyalty, as if often happened to the youth, won over reasonableness.

"His Majesty explicitly asked not to be disturbed."

"It is no jest," snarled the knight, "and I am not answerable to you."

Alber roused himself, shaking off treacherous fetters of fatigues, and firmly barred the way to the room where Sephiroth met the old Templar knight. Youthful diffidence disappeared when his liege was in danger and although his opponent was older and stronger, Alber was not going to take even a step backwards. There was his cowardice at Crecy, which he yet had to atone for, and so the youth felt fear, but no hesitation. He was a knight and thus beholden to honor the ancient traditions, amongst which one was to serve and defend a master. The messenger swore in clumsy French, unsheathing his sword, and fighting seemed inevitable when a familiar voice rang from the room, "Let him in, Alber."

At once, the youth obeyed: the voice possessed overwhelming power over him. At times, Alber thought that should Sephiroth ask him to jump out of the loophole, he would obey only because he saw no other purpose for his life but to serve. For the same reason, although he was curious about the cause of the messenger's visit, the mere thought of eavesdropping on his liege made him shudder. So, rubbing his freezing hands, the youth walked up and down the barn, casting but fleeting glimpses at the forbidden door.

The knight did not spend even a quarter of an hour in the room. When he reappeared on the threshold, Sephiroth was with him, and the youth caught a change in his master's demeanor.

"We are leaving immediately," he said, accompanying words with an abrupt gesture.

Alber ran out into the street to untie his master's steed. Around him, knights were mounting their horses in eerie silence. Having bundled up against the cold in his mantle, Cardinal de Chalus climbed on his meek mule, not without concern regarding strong and fast mounts of the knights.

"Head towards the main encampment," announced Sephiroth, leaning on Alber's shoulder to bestride his steed. "We are not splitting up –"

Suddenly, a flame appeared in the darkness. At first, it was a lone flicker, which could easily be mistaken for a glowworm if the night was not cold, but soon more fires flared up, blending into the crimson stream. Clatter of horses' hoofs shook the ground, resounding in the air like thunder, and the closer the horsemen drew, the louder became the frightening sound and the more violently Alber trembled. He should have gotten used to it by now, it seemed, but every detail of the battle at Crecy was with the guilt's chisel carved into his memory, and whereas the scars had stopped bleeding, they never ceased hurting. On rigid legs he approached the mount although his maddened senses screamed to seek a hideout, and slid his foot into the stirrup.

Sephiroth could not be missed in the darkness, tall, lean, and white. He gave a curt order and darted off the fast, well-fed horses, sweeping past the granary, past the small cluster of crooked barren trees, the line of their formation bending as they turned onto the road and wended away from the town's wall. For the first time on Alber's memory, Sephiroth was running from battle, which meant that circumstances did not favor them and soon he understood why.

The stream of lights drew together in a line and it stretched as far as he could see until hills hid the view. Slowly it assumed a crescent shape, precluding almost all means for escape, and that was the last detail Alber saw before the cold night swallowed them. Wind lashed him in the face and, shriveling from fear and chill, the young knight thoughtlessly clenched the bridle not to fall. His obedient horse without guidance of the firm hand followed the steeds of fellow knights, carrying him further into darkness. He could not even see whether Cardinal de Chalus lagged behind.

…The chase ended as abruptly as it began. The scenery had scarcely changed into the wooded plain, abounding with beeches and maples, when the small detachment was ordered to halt. Alber alighted and looked around. In the silvery stream of moonlight, barren trees took phantasmagoric shapes: a birch to the right appeared a hunched hag, a beech to the right was not at all a beech, but a beast from those tales which God's people recited with a share of reverent awe, and the forest itself breathed and lived, regally swaying in the wind and whispering words in a language no human would understand. His master's destrier discontentedly snorted and the youth stroked its nose in a manner only he knew would calm it.

"Where are we?" Sephiroth, too, dismounted, gripping the handle of his sword. Brother Jean pointed to the small stone structure which Alber would not have noticed otherwise.

"No one will find us here," said the old Templar knight. "It is an old pilgrim's shelter."

"What about the others?" asked Alber.

Sephiroth patted the croup of a bay horse.

"Scatter around the forest, lead the pursuers away."

"I swear on my honor we will not let you down, Your Majesty. To horse!" The knight waved his hand and the depleted detachment disappeared between the trees.

"Follow me, Your Majesty," the old Templar took his horse by the bridle and headed for the shelter. "It is scathe that more brothers will die tonight, but their sacrifice should not be rendered vain by our careless actions. We shall wait until dawn, until the wolves would crawl back into their dens, and then return to Avignon."

They descended into a small gully, leaving a trail of footsteps on melted snow, and found themselves before a curious – from Alber's viewpoint – structure, either a hut or a monastic cell of a hermit. He opened the creaking door and stepped inside the room which was separated by a wooden partition into two parts: one intended for horses, the other – for travelers. Alber assisted his master in arranging accommodations suitable for respite, lit a small fire on the stone floor with dry twigs which he found in the corner and then tended to the horses. His master's destrier was slightly weary from the chase so the youth checked its hoofs before retuning to the main room. To while away the time, Sephiroth and Brother Jean were engrossed in a conversation, paying Alber no heed. The youth shrunk into a corner, wrapping himself in a warm cloak to fight the piercing cold, and tried to concentrate on his own thoughts, but so cheerless they were that soon he found himself avidly listening to the conversation in which he would not be called upon to speak.

" …If there is anything you wish to blame my father for, it will not be the lack of political shrewdness in practical matters," Sephiroth was surprisingly calm, relaxed. Smirking, having chosen for the occasion one of his amused, a tad ironic smiles, the king tapped the tip of his left boot on the ground. "His court lived in a grand style, and often he would find himself in need of gold to fill the empty coffers. Avignon was a rich city and thus presented a tempting target for taxation; however, before my father could collect money he needed to establish a precedent, which he did with such impressive elegance that even you, Brother Jean, would have to esteem it. River Rhone belonged to the French crown, marking the edge of his kingdom, and when one rainy spring it flooded the city, my father rightfully taxed Avignon's citizens until waters remained within its walls, temporarily making it his property."

"Philip fascinates you," the old Templar spoke through gritted teeth.

"Yes… and no," replied the king. "Imagine, Brother Jean, that you held no knowledge of your origins and relationship to Jacques de Molay. Regardless of predicaments which befell you, regardless of where fate led you and what heights you conquered, the gnawing emptiness inside your soul would not disappear. You feel incomplete. You wish to know whose heritage you bear and where you came from. I wondered about my origins for years before the deceased Count of Flanders divulged the secret."

Alber was afraid to stir. Sephiroth never once communicated his thoughts about his kinship to the French king and the youth listened with bated breath to appease his insatiable curiosity. After his brother's death, nothing seemed to penetrate the veil of apathy he surrounded himself with, and only rarely – as now – he felt his former self was still alive, still endlessly inquisitive about trifles and believing in his master's heroism which would surpass all odds.

"I cannot imagine it," echoed the old knight. "I always was his nephew. I knew I would never be the next Grand Master and serving God alongside my brothers… satisfied me. With age, ambitious as I was, I came to realize the futility and hopelessness of everything therefore I no longer desire fame or titles for myself, nothing beyond what circumstances will allow me to achieve. I only have one goal."

"Vengeance?" Silver eyebrows rose.

"You err in your conclusions, Your Majesty. As much as I grieved after my uncle's death, as much I craved to see your father and the Pope suffer, one goal in its significance surpassed my selfish passions, and that made me see how foolish my brothers were in their persistent attempts to take your life. While with aloofness I watched France plunge into darkness, I could not cease judging my brothers' zeal for it blinded them to the single truth: nothing superseded our survival."

"In other words…"

"The Order must survive. I pride myself on playing a role in a cause as sacred as this."

The candor with which both Sephiroth and the Templar knight spoke disconcerted Alber. In a brief moment of silence, he summoned up his courage to ask, "Who attacked us today, messire?" although it was naïve of him to consider a possibility that his master hadn't thought of it.

"The Pope," Brother Jean answered in his master's stead. "Someone must have told him… traitor…"

Sephiroth folded his arms on his chest.

"Could it be one of your brothers?"

"No, it is ruled out."

"You seem quite certain of it."

"If my brothers wished to dispose of me," the old knight objected with morose pride, "they would have done so on one of those ninety seven days I resided in Avignon before you arrived."

Alber gazed at Sephiroth whose features exhibited a mixture of anger and fatalistic acceptance of the knight's rightness, and expected the former would win when the destrier neighed, diverting their attention from the touchy subject. The king was on his feet first, sword unsheathed, posture tense like that of a beast crouched before a jump. The door came off its hinges and Alber barely thought, '_We __are __attacked __again_' while his master assumed a battle stance, shielding the old Templar knight. Crimson lights flickered outside, shouts ascended – it seemed their enemies were no less surprised to have found them – and a few frightened men in disarray shoved through the door. Sephiroth slew the first two momentarily – two lightning-like thrusts and bodies slumped under his feet, one still crawling. The third guard stopped his master's flamboyant brand in flight, but lost his balance, leaning all his weight upon the wall. In semi-darkness, Alber saw the black silhouette fall on one knee and heard his labored breath until with a careless wave of a hand, Sephiroth decapitated him and, continuing the movement, pinned the crawling body to the floor.

Crecy repeated itself.

Four knights who challenged him next, Sephiroth struck down with the same graceful ease: in his hand the sword seemed weightless, rising and falling with monotony of the water mill wheel. The king did not waste bodily strength for intricate evasive movements, concentrating on defense, parrying two swords at once, pushing them apart, pressing to the floor and riposting through the opening. He could not allow himself to be thrown out of pace or take a wrong step. There was something artistic in perfection with which he struck from different positions, in clanks of steel, rapid like Alber's heartbeat, in wheezes and moans of the dying. Once, the former Templar knight came to his master's aid. He parried one blow aimed at Sephiroth's right, more unprotected side and after a short fight, having displayed great skill ascribed to warrior monks, thrust his short sword into the opponent's stomach.

The third wave did not bring their enemy much success either. They could not attack Sephiroth at once, being compelled to bunch up and fight him two at a time, impeding each other in the scarcely lit, narrow room. After the fourth wave, however, Alber began noticing signs of fatigue in his master's movements, little faults like a late parry whereafter a small cut appeared on his shoulder from a thwart blow delivered from above. The youth, too, joined the fight, staining his blade in blood, but without Sephiroth, he had to admit to himself, they would already be dead.

During the momentary lull, the old Templar knight moved the table towards the door. Alber glanced out of the window, ducking immediately as an iron bolt pecked the stone wall mere inches away from his face.

"How many?" The king threw a few bodies onto the top of the makeshift barricade and pushed the rest into the adjacent barn where horses fearfully neighed, moving their ears.

"Are you wounded, messire?" Alber implored in a quivering voice. He remembered Crecy for a reason.

"No. What did you see?"

"I am dreadfully sorry I didn't discern much. Another dozen, maybe a long dozen… or two… I desperately hope we were found by a stray group of pursuers."

"Perhaps."

"It has to be, Your Majesty," said the former Templar knight, breathing heavily; "They would never find us so soon unless they split up into small search parties."

Alber's heart wrung with fear and a nauseating wave rose in his throat. The floor was slippery from blood and entrails which champed under his boots no matter how carefully the young knight moved among the disfigured bodies. Sephiroth nonetheless radiated an aura of austere calmness which would have fooled Alber if only his master did not lean on his sword so often…

"It means that we do not have much time until they give up efforts to defeat us and send for reinforcements."

"What do we do?"

"We fight, Alber," the king's eyes pierced into him.

Alber opened his mouth to give a response when in the corner of his eye a dark blur appeared, to which he subconsciously reacted, having turned on his heels the moment a bolt flew in through the window.

"Messire!" He shrieked, but the arbalester took an aim poorly, missing the king, then disappeared from view to reload his crossbow, and all this time suspended in silence and emptiness of his world, Alber could not move. Something burst in his head, white tinged with crimson, stealing his breath, numbing his thoughts, and from horror of knowing what would happen there and then, the young knight grew cold. _Arrows __protruded __from __his __master__'__s __body __and, __cradling __his __pale __hand, __Alber __through __tears __could __not __discern __Sephiroth__'__s __face_.

Discern. Descry. Perceive. Understand.

Somewhere outside his world, there were sounds and colors he could not perceive. Another crossbowman aimed his weapon at his liege, another knight pushed through the barricade, and he had no time to unsheathe his sword or unstick his lips to warn the king. Time came to a standstill.

And Alber understood.

It was a singular answer he did not have to ask for or seek. It was a singular decision which was as an arrow straight, and as an arrow had a short lifespan. Crecy did not have to repeat itself. Alber understood what he lived for and fear which overcame him thawed, dripped along his cheeks with hot, poignant tears.

He lived to take a single step to the left. Like that. Shielding his master's body from two bolts, giving him time before arbalesters would aim anew. To protect what he revered. The final answer was so easy that untimely joy of feeling useful, right – whole – supplanted whatever fright that still lurked in the corners of his heart.

It was the longest step he took in his life; the hardest. Even as a child, when he learned how to walk, falling and scratching knees and palms, steps were not as difficult to take. The youth felt nothing when two bolts penetrated his body through chainmail, one through the chest, the other – through the abdomen. The world suddenly lost its clarity, a waterfall of sounds and colors rushed into Alber's mind – yells, entreaties, clangs of clashing swords – but amidst the mayhem, lying in the pool of his own blood, he was smiling.

He knew something his beloved master yet could not.

_Forgive me, Jean, and wait for me… I found myself and soon I will find you…_

**(¯ˆ****·****.¸¸.****·****ˆ¯)**

…Sephiroth could barely hold himself upright, gripping his last opponent's waste for support. The knight tried to wrench himself out of a position where his arm was clutched underneath the king's arm so that he could not attack, but after receiving a blow to his unprotected face, went limp. Sephiroth repeatedly struck the knight with the bow of his brand until the latter's nose broke and forehead bled and continued hailing down a storm of blows even as the enemy no longer showed attempts to resist. Then, staggering, he lowered himself onto the floor for although each one of them harmless, his wounds were ample in number to debilitate him. Neigh of horses was heard from the outside accompanied by the sounds of significant bustle and dusty sunlight scantily oozed through the window, quivering in pools of blood.

The king sat without a stir until a tall figure of a redheaded man appeared in the arch of the destroyed door. Then he turned his head and, barely moving his lips, whispered, "I see you have found me, Odo."

"Your Majesty foolishly risked everything!" The Duke of Burgundy indignantly exclaimed. "I said 'twas madness and I say so now."

Absently, Sephiroth wiped his forehead to clear vision, but had little success as long silver tresses stuck to his skin when blood, his own and his enemies', dried up.

"Just get me out of here."

"I will, Your Majesty, I swear on the grave of St. Denis I will, yet not before I punish the traitor."

"What traitor?"

The Duke of Burgundy grabbed a fragment of the broken table and hurled it aside.

"Him," he said, entering. His finger was pointing to the nephew of the last Grand Master who lay among the dead, breathing shallow, pale, but alive.

"You err, Odo."

"Your Majesty had already demonstrated a lapse in judgment earlier. Weakness caused by a sleepless night and terrible bloodshed only further altered your perception."

"Then why would he stay with me until the end?"

"He wants you to trust him, but who else…" Odo chocked with anger, "… who else is capable of such treacherous actions?"

"Order your servants to remove the bodies and bury my squire."

"What of the traitor?"

An impatient grimace distorted the king's fine features, "He is _not_ a traitor."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but your stubbornness…"

"I am not the one you should be looking for or blaming, Your Highness," the old knight recovered himself and, clenching a wound on his forearm, forced himself into a semblance of a sitting position.

"My words were not addressed to you, old fool," uttered the redheaded Duke and proudly strode out of the hut.

"He is the lucky one, you know. Unlike me, unlike you, messire, he seems happy."

At first, Sephiroth did not understand who Brother Jean was referring to, wondering if the strain of slaughter had finally damaged his senile mind, but then he saw: among faces awry with agony, Alber's was the only one with a smile.

He did seem happy.


End file.
